Nobody True

Oh, dear God, I thought. How will she take it? And how will she tell Primrose? They’d both be devastated. No, worse than that, much worse. This time I didn’t bawl: I wept. I wept quietly for my wife and daughter.

The tears fell until I finally ran out of them. I drifted through to the lounge and found a different corner to mourn in. Dropping to the floor I raised my knees, wrapped my arms around my shins, and rested my forehead on my kneecaps. I’ve no idea how much time went by,* but eventually I found myself alone. It wasn’t dark outside, but shadows were long and the streets below were filled with even more traffic and pedestrians. Obviously it was rush hour, which lasted a couple of hours, sometimes more as this was London.

*Time is a funny thing in this strange dimension I’d found myself inhabiting. There are kind of blank-outs, whole bits go missing, like in dreams; or like in movies, where every scene is usually relevant to the plot rather than following a natural linear, moment-by-moment progression. Maybe you sink so far down into your own psyche that you reach the subconscious level, which might preclude any tangible thoughts and images. I mean, even if you’re big on dreams, you never ever spend the whole night dreaming; there are long gaps from which you emerge into different scenarios once more.

I cursed myself. I should have left with the senior cop, followed him to my home, maybe even hitched a lift in his car so that I could be there when he broke the news. It was time to go home: I was desperate to be with my family.

I suppose I could have passed through the building’s thick outer wall and floated down to the busy street below, but for some reason that I couldn’t quite fathom, I opted to take the normal route. I kind of walked/drifted through the suite’s closed door and the blue-and-white exclusion tape strung across it, past the uniformed cop on guard duty, then along the high-ceiling hallway to the stairs. I could have taken the lift, but how would I have pressed the buttons? I passed one or two people along the way and did my best to avoid contact with them, just as if my body was solid.

There were a lot of journalists and photographers in the reception area, those by the lifts being held at bay by the frustrated under-manager and a surfer porter. I slunk by them all like a celeb trying to avoid paparazzi—irrational, I know, because I was perfectly aware that I could not be seen, but I was not as yet used to the condition.

Outside, the street was full of bustle: traffic, commuters hurrying by, pretty girls in short skirts, long skirts, or sexy trousers. Every one of them had a place to go and lived inside their own bodies. Me, I’d become a bodiless nomad. Rudely disinterred from my own host body. A mystery even to myself. Especially to myself.

On this fine autumn evening, imbibers from the pub across the road spilled out onto the pavement and tables were set outside a nearby cafe, with several occupied by customers who, no doubt, were familiar with the Continental practice, a custom that never worked well when one of our winters came along. Despite the chill in the air they all seemed happy enough, which seemed particularly cruel to me. Illogically, I wanted them to share my misery, needed them to empathize with my acute loneliness. I think really I just yearned for them to be aware of my plight. Or maybe I wanted to be among them in human form.

Uhhh! Someone had walked straight through me. It was most definitely imaginary, but I thought I felt myself sucked along with the person for a brief moment, a sensation so slight, so subtle, that I wondered if it had really happened. I gave a little shiver and pushed away the memory of his sour visions; yet I experienced an unexpected regret at having left him. The man walked on, unaffected it seemed, save for the sudden familiar “someone-walking-over-my-grave” shudder he gave.

Pulling myself together, I moved away from the hotel steps and drifted along the pavement, catching a shoulder or arm now and again, passing through any body when it could not be avoided. But then I became aware of something new that was weird and a little worrying: I seemed to be tuning in to the collective consciousness. By that I mean I was beginning to experience the unspoken words of these rush-hour people, their intellections: their imaginings, notions, perceptions, cogitations, deliberations and reflections, together with their shared apprehensions, all their cerebral musing suddenly breaking through and coming at me like a great tidal wave of mass thought, so that I had to squat against a wall and cover my ears as if it was their noise tormenting me, piercing my mind, not their conjoined brain yammerings. Almost overwhelmed, I crouched against the brickwork, pressing my hands against my ears even harder and yelling at the top of my own soundless voice to mute their cacophony.

Dear God, my mind screamed, this is going to drive me crazy.

Then, within seconds, something in me started to take control. It was as if I had some inbuilt protection unit that could nullify the “sound”. This was my first lesson in asserting some governance over my new status—I think the mere wish to rebuff the assault, coupled with the “physical” act of blocking my ears and “yelling loudly” was the catalyst that exerted my own will and saved me from going loco. Ultimately, it was instinctive, just as many actions in real life are.

Eventually, I got to my feet and moved cautiously onwards. I realized it would probably take the best part of an hour to reach home at this rate (had it taken that long to get back to the hotel last night? I couldn’t remember) and I became impatient. Experimentally, I tried leaping into the air, arms and legs straight in superhero mode, and kicking off with my toes. I could have been a normal human being for all the good it did. I rose about ten inches before settling down on concrete again. Cursing, I tried once more and the result was the same. I thought of those floating dreams again, and as I did, I was back in the air, just a couple of feet for sure, but learning another lesson about myself.

On the pavement once more, I willed myself to float—no, I imagined myself floating—and that was when I rose anew. The earth still had some gravitational pull, because I sunk yet again, although I now had some idea of how it was done. Just as in the old dreams, I thought of myself in the air, launched myself, and there I was riding high.

Whooping with glee, despite the dull heaviness in my heart, I pushed—imagined—myself a little further this time, and further I went. In spite of my troubled mind, I gloried in this small achievement. In truth, it was exhilarating, a tiny oasis of delight in a wretched day. I was airborne, had risen above mere mortals—that sudden conceit caused me to think on. Was I truly lost to this world, then?

Traffic and people passed beneath me and I gazed down at both with wonderment and trepidation. I asked myself the same question, but in different ways: Was I really dead? I mean, do ghosts get excited?

“Couldn’t be dead,” I said to myself as I sank back to earth. I just didn’t feel dead, I kept reminding myself. But I’d stood over my own vandalized corpse, so I had to be dead. Then why was I here, gliding through the air, invisible to my fellow-men in human form, but aware of everything around me? I think, therefore I am, said Descartes, and he was a clever guy. Well, I thought, but did I exist?

I touched concrete without feeling a bump and immediately two young girls passed right through me. Just a frisson of alien incursion—a fleeting vision of a good-looking young guy, obviously the topic of the girls’ giggly conversation. Something more though, a covert, brooding envy underlying the pleasure. Within the blink of an eye, I understood that one of the hurrying girls had a date with a new boyfriend, while the other girl, who pretended to share her companion’s anticipation, secretly harboured a nasty streak of jealousy deep within her heart. The insight was quickly gone, but a sour memory lingered with me. I shivered, because the residue of bad will was slow to fade and tainted my own temporary lightness. I resolved to pay even more attention to oncoming strangers—these partial absorptions were way too unsettling. (Interestingly, the one with the new boyfriend was the plainer of the two girls—I had caught a glimpse of their faces just before they walked straight through me—and it was the attractive one who was burdened with the envy.)

I stepped into the gutter and continued my journey, sweeping along the streets, making better progress when all I had to avoid was jaywalkers and cyclists. Once, at a road junction, I came down in the path of a single-decker bus and I couldn’t help but scream as I cowered and covered my head with my arms. It was bad, but not as bad as I expected it to be.

For a start, there was no impact (obviously, not in my state) and the sense of metal, engine parts, oil, and people’s lower bodies washing through me like fluid through a sieve (well, something like that) was no big deal. It happened so fast and there were so many passengers on board that their every perception dimmed the next, or mixed with it so none was clear. As a round colour chart filled with different colour samples will become completely white when spun, so the individual concerns and considerations melded into one, and were reduced to a senseless but subdued intrusion. It could be handled and that new lesson came as a relief: a mass assault would have quickly sent me crazy.

It became impossible to take any more pleasure in my flight, because primary concerns soon overwhelmed anything else. Anxiety became my driving force. I had to get to Andrea and Primrose, I wanted to be with them when they heard the news of my demise. Somehow—God only knew how—I had to offer them some comfort. If there was a way of letting them know I wasn’t gone, that I was still around…

Minor incidents along the route are not worth mentioning here; suffice to say, that by the time I reached journey’s end I’d learned more rules of my condition and was beginning to adapt. People passing through me, something that couldn’t always be evaded every time, was something akin to a cold shiver, or sometimes, when it happened very swiftly, like a cerebral sneeze, a mild shock that shook me for only an instant.

Even so, by the time I reached home I was an emotional wreck, because pernicious travelling companions—fear, doubt, curiosity, bewilderment, apprehension—had accompanied me all the way. But finally I was there and I paused—hesitated?—at the entrance to the short drive as I had last time I’d journeyed home, but now for a different reason.

I suddenly felt completely inadequate.

As previously noted, time appeared to have little relevance in the new dimension I occupied, but the autumn sun was sinking behind buildings on the false horizon, leaving night and lengthening shadows to settle in. I was dimly aware that the trip from the heart of London into the near-suburbs shouldn’t have taken that long, but at the moment other concerns took precedence.

My home stood in a broad, tree-lined avenue and was one of the rewards of my success, although I wasn’t wealthy by any means, just comfortably off. Detached from its neighbours, with two cars inside the double garage—my BMW and Andrea’s small new runaround, a green VW—the house comprised four bedrooms (one of them converted into a study/studio for me, another used as an exercise room for Andrea, and the other two as normal bedrooms), two bathrooms, downstairs cloakroom, a well-spaced hall, long lounge area with patio doors to the rear garden at the far end, dining room and fair-sized kitchen. At the front was the short drive I now lingered in, a small, neat lawn with a couple of flower-beds to one side, and at the rear of the house another, larger garden.

I noticed there was no police car, liveried or unmarked, parked at the kerbside.

I stood watching my home, emotionally but obviously not physically weary, until the sun was just an orange glow behind the distant buildings. I don’t know why I stayed there—I think I was just afraid. Something within nagged at me, told me that when I confronted my wife and daughter and they neither heard nor saw me, then it would be final confirmation of my death. And that really scared me.

I’m not sure how long it was before I stirred myself—as I said, time had little meaning to me now and could be judged only by the actions of mortals—but eventually I resolved to face the truth.

I approached the heavy front door to my home.

18

A second’s obliteration of sight, the briefest sense of being inside, even being part of the wood grain itself, that’s what I experienced when I passed through the front door. I became kin to its texture, its essence, and somehow I understood its growth as well as its roots (yes, literally; I had knowledge of the tree itself, when the oak was planted in the ground and drawing life from the earth and sky). But it was only an instant (by now you’ll have caught the drift that time isn’t quite what it seems to be).

Even as I emerged from the door into the hallway, stairs dead ahead leading to the bedrooms, a feeling of dread pushed oaks and grainy textures from my mind.

The place seemed empty. Certainly there was a coldness of atmosphere to it that I’d never experienced here before. One of my greatest pleasures in life had been stepping over the threshold of my own home after a good and fruitful day’s work at the office and knowing someone was waiting for my return. Especially when it was Primrose waiting for me. But it was only at this precise moment that I appreciated just how much it meant to me, for now there was nothing. No sound of voices, no music, no small running footsteps. Nothing. But no, that wasn’t quite right. It was the feeling of something missing that held me there.

I was suddenly afraid to move.

Surely the police, the detective superintendent called Sadler, should be here breaking the tragic news to Andrea, commiserating with her, asking questions about me? Had I got here ahead of him? But the place was quiet.

Maybe it had taken only minutes for me to reach here, I told myself. Maybe the journey was quicker than I thought and my timing was all askew. My family was not at home and the policeman hadn’t yet arrived. Yes, that was it. There was no strange car parked by the roadside or in the drive, and perhaps Prim was being collected from school at this very moment. But then, outside, the blood-orange sun was already settling behind the spread of buildings to the west and I’d left the hotel when it was high and brighter in the sky. I checked my wristwatch.

Yes, it was there all right, although I had to pull my shirtcuff back to see its face.* It was a reflex action because I did not feel dead. The digits told me it was 1.32 a.m. But that was impossible. It was not yet dark enough outside. And anyway I couldn’t have lost that amount of time getting here from the hotel. It wasn’t possible! Then it struck me: 1.32 a.m. was the time of my death. That was the precise moment natural things stopped for me. The shirt and trousers I was wearing (I had no jacket) and the watch on my wrist accompanied me into this other existence because they were an intrinsic part of me. Somehow I knew that the digits on the watch would always be set at the same time unless I concentrated hard to make them change, and the clothes I wore would never need cleaning or ironing as long as I didn’t “see” them as dishevelled. This awareness seemed to come as naturally to me as other realizations surely would.

*This is just one of the many peculiar things about being out-of-body. You assemble everyday clothes and accessories upon yourself, your hair is combed the way you usually comb it and it can become mussed when you mess with it; you even wear shoes when walking isn’t essential. I knew if I put a hand in my pocket I could pull out a handkerchief, because I existed in a state of false normalcy, so subconsciously I equipped myself with normal paraphernalia, even though those things and I have no substance. I think it’s just a way of preventing your mind from going AWOL; you cling to things that are familiar in order to maintain some kind of reality you can work with.

The digression was quickly over with and my thoughts returned to the house’s emptiness. And that was when at last I heard the small sniffling sounds, then the murmur of a soft, soothing voice. Andrea’s voice, Prim’s sniffles. I hadn’t heard them until now because I was too out of my mind with anxiety to take in much else.

I moved fast. I walked or glided, I don’t know which, through the open door to my left, following the sounds. They were sitting cuddled together on the long sofa in the lounge, arms entwined round each other, Prim’s small head buried into her mother’s chest. It was such a heart-rending sight that my own eyes stung with tears.

I rushed to them and tried to smother them in my embrace, but of course, there was no contact, only an unintended sinking into their flesh. I pulled away, startled, even though by now I should have known what could happen. But I’d been caught off guard and I guess, under the circumstances, it was understandable. I backed off: the utter misery I’d partially absorbed from them was even worse than my own. I could only gaze at them.

While journeying through the streets, and even as early as back there in the hotel suite, I’d been aware of a kind of fuzziness around individuals, shallow halos that had not quite impressed themselves upon me enough to give them any thought—let’s face it, I’d had plenty to think about at the time. When I inadvertently got too close to people (and remember I was doing my best to avoid them) I could see those halos more clearly, softish, but often bright vignettes surrounding each figure. I had accepted that these were each person’s aura* and I had neither the time nor inclination to give it further consideration. Now I was witnessing it around my wife and daughter, a miserable dull grey that was dense in places. At this time I was not strongly attuned to the phenomenon, but it was definitely present and somehow it revealed their depths of misery even more clearly than Prim’s sniffles and Andrea’s tears. Obviously they’d been told the dreadful news and by the state they were in it must have been some time ago, because there was no hysteria in their grief, and no denial either, only resigned, sorrowful acceptance. It seemed they had come to terms with the reality of my death already, although I suspected that the full, unexpected horror of it would crush them again and again over the next few weeks, perhaps the next few months. If I’d had a heart, it would have bled for them, but as things were, I could only join in their pain.

*You’ve probably heard of Kirlian photography, by which rays emitted by any living thing are recorded on film. The process reveals that we are all surrounded by a kind of high-frequency electric field whose colour range or level of brightness can indicate a person’s state of health or wellbeing. Tumours and diseases, as well as damage to certain parts of the body, can be detected by the dullness or unhealthy murkiness of certain patches in the field. This “halo” can also be influenced by moods and imbalances of the mind.

Andrea was repeating the same soft mantra to Prim: “It’s all right, baby, Daddy just passed away, he didn’t feel a thing.”

It seemed that, wisely, the whole story was being kept from Primrose, and I was grateful for that. I mean, how do you tell a little seven-year-old girl that her father was murdered and mutilated in the worst possible way by some sick maniac? Which words do you use? I prayed right there and then that she would never be told the full truth, not even when she was a grown woman.

I dropped to my knees on the plush carpet and whispered that I loved them both and that I had not left, I was still around, that I’d find some way to let them know.

What? Haunt my own family? Had disembodiment driven me crazy so soon? I’d seen the mangled state of my corpse. There was no coming back. But there had to be a way of making myself known. It happened in movies didn’t it? What was that big hit several years ago, the one with Whoopi Goldberg and the two actors whose stars never rose as high again? The one where the husband or boyfriend is murdered but comes back and contacts his girlfriend through a medium. Ghost, that was it. Yeah, big hit at the time, but hardly rated at all in retrospect. Okay, that was pure Hollywood, but grieving widows and widowers visited mediums all the time, searching for some word from their lost loved ones. I’d always thought that that kind of thing was hokum, sheer nonsense, the greedy feeding off the needy, but hey, today I was clutching at straws. I’d try anything to make my family aware that I was okay, not the same, but generally okay. I know it was desperation, but I just could not bear their suffering. I had to do something.

I knelt my hands touching but not feeling their shoulders (I was already learning ways to make my condition just a little more tolerable: I’d reach out and touch, and although I made no physical contact by leaving my hands where they would normally have rested on the other person, I imagined I could feel. It was better than nothing).

“Don’t worry for me,” I said as if they could hear. “I’m fine, really. I didn’t feel any pain, I didn’t even know I was going to die.” Maybe it wasn’t helping them, but in a strange way it was helping me. What better way to go than when you’re not there? No suffering, no fear—just, well, just oblivion. Only it wasn’t quite oblivion, was it? No, it was discovery, then fear, this followed by all kinds of angst.

I was about to blubber, so I forced myself to snap out of it. Withdrawing my hands, I got to my feet and made a resolution. There was a reason for my condition and I was going to find out what it was. I was an enigma, a mystery to myself, and I determined to find the answer. And while I was at it, I’d discover a way to contact my precious wife and daughter. Hell, spirits spoke to the living through mediums all the time, didn’t they?

Unfortunately, it was precisely at that point that Andrea gently nudged Primrose away from her and said: “I have to phone Nanny True, darling. I have to let her know about Daddy.”

And my new resolve crashed.

While I hadn’t felt close to Mother for many years now (if ever, in fact), the grief I knew my sudden death would cause her almost overwhelmed me with sadness. What’s the old Chinese saying? The torment of the gods is for your children to die before you. It goes something like that. Anyway, that day I understood the adage perfectly. Despite her detachedness, she would be devastated at losing a second man in her life, my father being the first (despite her apparent disdain of him, there had to have been some love at the beginning). She had no close friends—she’d never courted friendship, for that matter—and although there was still Andrea and her granddaughter Primrose, she hardly ever saw them before my death, so I was pretty certain she wouldn’t after.

I sat with Prim and tried not to listen to the one-sided conversation coming from the phone. Fortunately, Andrea kept her voice low, only the gravity of its tone reaching Prim and I on the sofa. My daughter had slumped with one cheek pressed against the back of the sofa, her brown eyes glittering with tears. Small catches of breath jerked her chest and shoulders every few seconds and her solitary sobs had become dry with repetition. I’d have given anything to hold and reassure her Daddy was okay, he was right there beside her and feeling no pain—no physical pain, at least. But I had nothing to give. What could a bodiless person possibly possess to give? Even a future was in serious doubt. So I used the new trick I’d learned: I put my arms around her and imagined they were making contact. I whispered loving things into her ear and hoped they would, in some mysterious way, get through to her. Oh God, I could feel her hurt and it was terrible to bear.

Andrea returned and her face was ashen. I saw that she was going to sit in the place I already occupied and I moved away, reluctantly relinquishing my imagined hold on Prim, but just as unwilling to undergo the added trauma of being “invaded” by my wife.

Prim snuggled into her mother’s arms once again and looked up into Andrea’s face. “What… did… Nanny… say?” Each word had had to be forced.

A child’s question and perhaps the only way she could express concern for her grandmother.

Andrea’s reply was as grim as her face was pallid. “Not much,” she said.

Kneeling on the floor in front of them, I let go a deep sigh. No, it was more of a silent groan. I should have known Mother would deal with my death in her own remote way. Any wayward emotion would be kept in check in another’s presence. Maybe she’d burst into tears once she put the phone down. Maybe. I wondered if she had even enquired how I’d died. Well, could be I was judging my mother too harshly, but it had taken a lifetime for that judgement to be formed. Let it go, I told myself without bitterness. Mother was Mother. Her self-preservation took its own line. I returned to my wife and daughter, who had no such hang-ups.

I don’t know how long we remained there in that gloom-laden room, all of us weeping and scarcely moving—it could’ve been an hour or half an hour—but finally it was the sound of a car door slamming on the drive, then the doorbell ringing, that roused us.

Andrea gave Prim one last hug before rising and walking right through me as she went to answer the door. Briefly I felt that now-familiar disorientation as her psyche mixed with mine and misery piled on misery. But I’d also caught a curious hint of anticipation, a kind of reflex lightening of her mood which, while hardly shifting the grief, at least interrupted it for a moment.

I heard the front door open, then a loud sob that came from Andrea. The silence that followed was broken only by a few more muffled sobs. Rising smoothly—at least I had acquired a certain grace of movement in my new state—I went through to the hallway.

Andrea was in Oliver’s arms, one of his hands in her hair, holding her head against his shoulder. His eyes were closed and there was nothing in his expression.

19

I hung around the house for three days—I think (time continued to baffle me)—full of self-pity and anguish for my family. Outside, the weather had turned grey and drizzly, suitable for the general mood, I suppose.

I think I must have been afraid to leave everything that was familiar to me; somehow the contact helped maintain my own reality. Nothing could be mundane for me anymore, but at least the familiar offered a kind of sanctuary.

It was terrible to witness the suffering of my family and I searched for ways of letting my presence be known to them (I wasn’t yet ready to leave the house and find a spiritualist). I tried to move objects, anything from ornaments on the mantelpiece to lace curtains; I spoke directly and loudly into Andrea’s ear; I tried writing my name on a steamed-up bathroom mirror; I willed cups to rattle in saucers; I tried rapping on table-tops, kitchen counters, any hard surface that came to hand. Nothing, though. I made no sound, I caused no disturbance. I could only watch as a stream of visitors offering condolences came to the house—friends, neighbours, and of course my business partners, Oliver (again) and Sydney. Surprisingly, it had been Sydney who had formally identified my body, I learned—eavesdropping was a cinch when you couldn’t be seen. Or maybe it wasn’t surprising after all. It would have killed Andrea to view my mutilated corpse and my mother was out of the question. Oliver? To be honest, I’m not sure how he would have handled it. Badly, I’d guess, given his reaction when he arrived back at the hotel suite to see what was left of me on the bed. Underneath his bravura persona, he was quite a sensitive soul. Despite police suspicion he’d have been an awful choice of murderer. In fact, I think he would have been a disaster as a murderer.

The police came twice, asking the same old questions about dodgy acquaintances and outright enemies, but Andrea had nothing to give. The worst were the Press and television journalists who rang the doorbell night and day—how does it feel to know that your husband was the fourth victim of a serial killer, are you satisfied that the police are doing their job efficiently, do you fear for your own life knowing that the murderer is still at large, do you have photographs of your husband we could take copies of? It was intrusive and it was cruel. I would have done anything in my power to keep them away, but of course, I was helpless. The frustration and the sense of inadequacy were hard to bear.

Eventually, I became restless within myself. I don’t feel I’ve ever been one for self-pity (never much cause before anyway), but I’d indulged too much in the aftermath of my death. Okay, maybe I had good reason, but basically I’ve always been an optimist and it seems to me that death should not necessarily erase the character you’ve developed during your lifetime. It wasn’t exactly optimism that got me moving, though, more like curiosity, a compelling urge to discover more about myself and this dimension in which I existed. Also, I felt the need to find my murderer, and certain ideas were pushing their way through this great fog of misery and woe that had engulfed me.

First things first, though. I had a duty to call in on Mother. All right, it was more than duty—I wanted to see her, she was my only parent, after all. Yes, and I did love her. How can a son not love his mother? I made up my mind to leave my house and visit her. Besides, arrangements for my funeral and kind eulogies from well-meaning visitors (my canonization was due any day, I began to feel) were unsettling. I needed to get into the world again before I turned into a morose, reclusive ghost.

So I bade silent farewells to Andrea and Prim, whom I’d followed around during the day just to be near her (understandably she was being kept away from school for a while), sitting on the floor beside her bed at night when she slept; later I’d drift off to my own bedroom and lie down next to Andrea, throwing an arm over her, imagining I was real and could feel her. Purposefully, I set out into my strange new world.

It was late afternoon as far as I could tell and the traffic flow from the city was already beginning to swell as I made my way to the wide main road. Prepared for a long haul—my mother lived close to the river on the east side of London—something happened that both surprised and pleased me.

My mother’s image and the low-rent flat she lived in were strong in my mind, because I was thinking of her sitting in her old lumpy armchair, the curtains behind her possibly drawn closed so she would be in shadow (that was her usual mode of mourning, and by mourning I don’t necessarily mean grieving for someone just passed away; any slight or upset that involved altercation with other people—might be the milkman delivering late, or a neighbour making too much noise—would send her off into one of her sulky moods). Just my staying out late when I was a teen—which I did a lot, I admit—was enough to send her into a grumpy retreat for a few days. Sunshine was never allowed into the room during that time, but the gap between the curtains would open an inch or so usually about the third day, widening from then little by little as the mood drained from her. It was irritating, but eventually I learned to take no notice. I’d carry on talking to her as normal and sometimes, if there was no response, I’d reply for her. I had many such self-conversations and I’m afraid it never improved the situation. In the end I’d begin to annoy myself, so I’d make an apology and finally—after the third or fourth one that is—it would be accepted. Full daylight returned to our front sitting room.

So that was what I was thinking of, except I saw Mother in a more distraught state, because this time my death would be the culprit. I usually endeavoured to visit my mother at least once a week and the reception was always frosty if I was late, or had missed the previous week. Drawn curtains in summer, single lamplight only in winter. I pictured her there now, shrivelled in her armchair, tear-stains blotching her plumpy face. Maybe she’d be holding a photograph of me in her trembling hands, possibly me as a boy and more manageable. Just you and me, Jimmy, she used to say then, grasping my small hand in hers and squeezing. We don’t need anybody else—and especially not him (she meant my father, the absconded husband). Just the two of us against the whole world. Well that was fine when I was little, but when I grew up I got wiser and realized the whole world and its residents had a lot to offer. Eventually—around twelve, I guess—I rebelled and started to become my own person. Sure, I still loved her, but I wasn’t certain that I liked her that much anymore.

Yet again, I digress. There I was, three (?) days after my body’s death, breezing along—not quite gliding, but not quite walking either—with Mother’s image and environment sharp in my mind, when suddenly, everything became rushed. That is, I was rushing, leaving my own surroundings far behind.

This was how I mostly arrived at places in my previous, living OBEs. I’d think of a location that was known to me, or a familiar person, then with a blurred kind of flight I’d be there. It was a bewildering but exhilarating experience, a “Beam me up, Scotty” affair without the dazzling column of starlights. For an instant, when I appeared before the person I’d had in mind, I was always sure that I could be seen, or that my sudden arrival had at least been sensed. I felt so real myself, you see. It took a beat for me to realize that my body had not come along for the ride.

And that’s how it was again soon after my death. One moment I was moving along a main road, then everything kind of blurred and rushed, and I found myself in an unfamiliar part of the city. However, I was aware that I’d been brought closer to my mother’s address. Concentrating hard this time, rather than just thinking of her, I experienced another blurred rush. Whatever had been accomplished instinctively in my previous dream-states, I realized, now had to be considered.

I found myself even closer to my mother’s address, in a side street where the houses were run-down and the gutters littered. This time I knew exactly where I was and it took only a mental picture of Mother and her surrounds for the rush to start again and the journey to be completed.

Only a few inches of daylight shone through the narrow gap in the curtains, but at least she had the small table lamp on, which cast as many shadows as it defeated. And, yes, sure enough she was in her lumpy old armchair, sitting forward, leaning towards the low coffee table I’d bought her years ago. There were three photographs on its small surface, one of them black-and-white and torn into four pieces, the other two in colour, both of me. The first, a shot when I was no more than ten or eleven years old, the other as a young man, when I’d graduated from art college with an NDD—National Diploma of Design. I looked good—smiling, happy, kind of confident in myself.

The torn monochrome was of an older man, but although the four pieces had been roughly assembled, they had not been tightly joined, the gaps between distorting the subject’s features. It was a small photograph too, which didn’t help; I couldn’t recognize the man. Yet he—I could see that his hair was grey at the temples and that he was smiling—was somehow familiar to me.

I turned my attention to Mother and whispered to her that I was there but, naturally, there was no reaction. Her poor face was puffy, and the redness around her eyes indicated that a multitude of tears had been shed. Unusually for her, she looked untidy: the collarless blouse beneath her thin beige cardigan was wrinkled, unfresh, and her skirt was rumpled too; she wore old carpet slippers and her tights or stockings were crimped around the ankles. Even her grey-brown hair was slightly messy; normally it was tightly set and not a single hair moved when she shook her head. Now it fell over her forehead in untidy locks while the rest was a confused tangle of curled snake-like clumps all over her head. Rarely had I seen her in a state like this. In fact, the last time she had been almost as distraught was on the day I told her I wanted to find my father (I was seventeen, if I recollect correctly, and it was shortly before my motorbike accident). He might—according to her—have been a bad man, an awful husband and father, a person who drank too much and was obsessive about things that decent people did not mention aloud (I took it that she meant sex), but I’d insisted, told her, it was my right to know my own father no matter what kind of scumbag he might be. That was it: curtains closed, sitting in a sulk for the next five days, with a blotchy, tear-stained face, accusations that I was becoming just like him, didn’t care for her anymore, that I was obstinate, bullheaded and disrespectful—all this thrown at me, wearing me down bit by bit until I figured that finding my long-lost dad was more trouble than it was worth. I admit it—as far as women were concerned, whether they be mother, girlfriends, or wife, I took the easy way. Can’t stand moods, never could. Maybe because Mother always seemed to be in one. Anyway, like that time, when I was seventeen, this was just as heavy. Heavy, but at least understandable. She’d lost her only son, hadn’t she? And in the most awful way any mother could imagine.

I noticed her pinkish, transparent-framed spectacles were lying on the coffee table behind the photographs. I also noticed a bundle of letters on the carpet by her feet. Curiosity taking over from the pity I felt for her, I went down on my knees beside the low table so that I could get a closer look at those letters. At first I thought they were letters of condolences for her recent bereavement, but now I saw that some of the envelopes were battered and old-looking. Peering even closer, I saw that the one on the top said: Master James True, with our old address beneath the name.

It was a jolt. Why would someone have written to me at our previous address? Leaning forward so that my head almost touched Mother’s knees, I tried to discern the postmark, but it was smudged. The envelope itself was light blue and the stamp was one I hadn’t seen for many years. The other envelopes were of various sizes and mostly white; frustratingly, I could not riffle through them.

A tearful sigh, not quite a sob, came from Mother. I toppled over as she stretched forward, a reflex because I thought she might touch me and I didn’t want to scare her. Silly, but I still hadn’t become accustomed to my present state; there were all kinds of things yet to learn and, until I did, involuntary actions or reactions would continue.

She reinstated her glasses on her nose, then picked up the most recent photograph of me.

“Traitor,” she hissed with some venom.

I was shocked. I stared at her.

“Just like him!”

The “him” was almost spat out.

She took the colour shot by its top edge, then slowly and deliberately tore it down the centre. Putting one side over the other, she turned the picture and tore it down the centre again. Because of the double-thickness, this was not quite as easy as the first tear, and she breathed an oath as she gripped it, her face as white as her knuckles.

I was shocked again. I’d never heard Mother swear before.

Scooping up the pieces, she mixed them with the other torn photo before leaning over and dropping them into the yellow metal bin on the other side of the armchair. Their sound as they hit the bottom was louder than it should have been because of the stillness of the room itself, the noise of traffic outside muffled by the curtains.

“Bastard!” Mother said again and I couldn’t be sure if she meant me or the man in the black-and-white. “Both bastards!” she said as if to put me right.

I could not believe it. She was acting as if I had deliberately left her. In fact, the same stiff-faced expression that she’d used when I announced that I was leaving home to flat-share with friends, then when I told her I was getting married, now hardened her features. I’d witnessed similar solidifying countenances many times in the past, particularly when I enquired after my father, but they had never been quite as severe, nor as furious, as this one. This was bloody scary! This was Medusa on a bad-hair day.

I shuddered and wondered if it was my hideous death that had sent her over the edge. Then I reconsidered. She’d always been a little crazy, hadn’t she? I mean, not outright, frothing-mouthed kind of crazy, but… disturbed. A hoarder of hurt feelings, a miser as for as warm regard was concerned. Why did she hate me? What had I done? It wasn’t my fault that I got killed. I had problems dealing with it myself. Did she think I’d deliberately deserted her? Did she assume I was just following my father’s example? No, it didn’t make sense. No sane person would blame a son for being killed. Not unless they really were insane…

It came back to that again. I refused to admit it. She couldn’t have been mad. But tearing up my picture…? What was that all about? And I was beginning to guess who the grey-haired man in the black-and-white was.

In the mean time, as I was assessing the state of my mother’s mind, she was reaching down for the letters on the floor. Several of them slipped through her podgy fingers as she picked them up and I was in like a dog whose supper bowl is ready. I quickly scanned the names and checked the addresses.

Every one of the aged envelopes bore my name and our old address except for two which still had my name, although the “Master” had been dropped, and this current address. What the hell was Mother doing with them and why hadn’t she passed them on to me? It didn’t make sense. What reason could she have for keeping them to herself? They hadn’t even been opened.

Call me thick, but it did eventually dawn on me who had written and had kept on writing to me over the years. The old black-and-white photograph, torn but not thrown away—until now, that is, the letters addressed to our previous home, and then to Mother’s current one, the house I had shared with her through the early teenage years. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to work it out. The picture was of my father; the unopened letters were from him.

Oddly, I didn’t feel rage towards my mother. A huge sadness descended on me, though. How could she do it? All right, even if he had deserted us, run off with some other woman for all I knew—Mother would never speak of it, preferring to let my own imagination do its worst—he was still my dad. Even if he was the vilest man on earth, I still had the right to know him and judge for myself. Really, how could she do it?

I screamed “No!” as she began to tear up the letters, methodically, one by one, dropping the remnants into the bin by her side, and I tried to grab them, but of course, my scrabbling hand touched nothing. I beat on the carpeted floor with the heel of my fist in angry frustration, as if the noise alone would stop her. Naturally, there was no noise. I could have wept, I could have screamed my frustration over and over again. But all I could do in the end was watch.

I remembered the drawings and paintings of mine, the long essays in exercise books, short stories meant for my eyes only, all those personal treasures—treasures to me!—which she had blindly, thoughtlessly, thrown into the dustbin, never letting me know until it was too late and the refuse had been collected, never asking me. I hadn’t hated her then, but I did now.

What had I been to her all those years? A son, or her possession? Had she never felt any real true love? If so, she would have talked to me, she would have confided in me. She would never have sulked every time I made plans of my own. It was the natural thing for offspring to stretch their wings, to learn for themselves, and finally to leave the nest, so why had she never accepted that? Why had she never welcomed Andrea as my wife? Why was she so aloof towards her grandchild, Primrose? Was she so selfishly wrapped up in her own ways and woes that there wasn’t room for others in her chilly heart? But the prime question kept stalking me.

Was she nuts?

Terrible things to think about your own mother, I know, but remember what I’d been through. Murdered most foully, witness to my wife and daughter’s grief, lost and alone without a body to call home. Who could blame me for being in a bitter frame of mind?

Those letters were from my father and she had kept them to herself for reasons of her own. Skunk he might have been, but a kid needs to have some knowledge of its old man. And maybe he wasn’t quite as rotten as she’d said. I’d heard only her side of the story. Years of poison. But now a brittle glimmer of doubt had opened up in my mind. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the swine she’d always led me to believe.

One by one she gathered up the letters that had fallen from her clutches, tearing each of them with growing vigour—and anger. By now the thunderous look on her face would have turned cream sour, the hateful beam of her eyes would have paralysed rabbits. Spittle glistened on her lips and there was a drool at one corner of her mouth.

“Bastard!” she repeated again and again, and I wasn’t quite sure if she meant the author of those letters or me. Better to think she meant the former, but it was still shocking. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected visiting Mother—deep mourning or stoic fortitude—but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Bastard!” Rip.

I stood and gazed down at her hunched shoulders, her spiteful hands and frighteningly hard face, shaking my head with a different kind of sadness than before. This was a pitying melancholy, the anger in me held tight, restrained by the pity itself. Her head seemed to vibrate with her displeasure, the tangled “snakes” quivering as if truly alive. I wanted to leave, but stayed rooted to the spot. Her behaviour was almost mesmerizing.

“Bastard!” Rip.

Then a word I would never in a hundred years have imagined my mother using.

“Cuntcuntcuntcunt…” Over and over.

At least it broke the spell. I’d backed off, over to the other side of the room, my startled eyes fixed on her as she dropped the strewn letters, picking up pieces and tearing them into even smaller pieces. What in God’s name had happened to Mother? Had my death driven her over the edge, finally broken through that old, cold reserve she had always worn like a self-protective mantle? Or was this the true Mother, the monster lurking behind the respectable and reserved woman she showed to the rest of the world? Abruptly, I realized I didn’t want to witness any more, and with this thought, I left my mother’s home…

… To find myself beside my own corpse.

It was a stark, miserable room, with off-white tiles from floor to ceiling and frosted-glass windows on two sides. There were work counters filled with bottles, jars, bowls and various kinds of metal instruments all around the walls, with cupboards and single drawers beneath them, glass-fronted cabinets above; these were crammed with more bottles and compounds, most of them brightly labelled and the only cheer in this gloomy place. When I say gloomy, I mean in aspect—two long fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, but their brightness merely seemed to accentuate the unflinching drabness of the place.

Nearby was a round glass container of pinkish liquid standing on top of a cream-coloured box with dials and switches, two clear plastic tubes running from it. It resembled a drinking-fountain, the type you get in American offices, but because of the colour of the liquid inside I surmised that it was an embalming machine, because I knew I was in some kind of mortuary. Close to it on the counter was a tray filled with body plugs and eye caps, the latter obviously used to keep eyelids closed, and next to that an open jar with make-up brushes. Further along was a sink and swivel-headed tap, more jars and metal containers filling the worktops alongside and the shelves that ran round two sides of the room. A cushioned stool on wheels stood in one corner, while a small-wheeled utility trolley with two metal shelves, and a drawer beneath the lower shelf, was positioned next to a rectangular white porcelain table with raised lips around its edges and a drainage hole at one end. There was another table a few feet away from the first and both were identical and anchored to the tiled floor by broad central pillars; the only difference between them was that the former also held my cadaver. It was covered up to the hips by a green surgical drape, and my head was supported by a block behind the neck. Behind that was a water tap with a short hose attachment.

I shuddered when I looked down at my patched-up face.

I supposed they’d done as good a job as they were able, but it must have been impossible for the mortician to make me reasonably handsome again. I won’t dwell on it, but although an effort had been made to restructure my skull—in other words, to pull the nose and forehead out again (they had been totally bashed in, remember)—it still looked as if it had been hit by a ten-ton truck. God, it was gruesome. Quasimodo’s uglier brother. Frankenstein’s lesser-known creation. I was a monster, a dead, disfigured monster. No open casket for me then.

The deep cuts over my chest and upper arms had been expertly sewn up with coarse, unfussy stitches; the mauve-to-purplish-yellow discolorations of much of my skin resembled hideous body paint. Before I turned my head away in disgust, I noticed one other thing. In fact, I did a double-take. On my left-hand side at a point just below my ribcage was a slightly puckered wound the size of a small bead, a perfectly round puncture that was dark with dried blood.

I was leaning forward for closer inspection when a muted cough from somewhere behind distracted me. Still bent, I looked around and saw the figure of a man sitting at a desk in a small annexe room to the mortuary. He was wearing a plain white coat and was busy scribbling notes in a pad on the desk. I wondered if he was writing a post-mortem report on me, but quickly realized he was more likely to be a funeral director than a pathologist, for neither room was excessively large, nor were there any body cabinets. No, I was being prepared for my own funeral, and that realization sent shivers through me.

It made me feel really dead.

The third place I visited was the worst.

The first two had disturbed and frightened me, but number three—well, that totally freaked me out. I don’t know how I got there, it certainly wasn’t intentional, but one moment I was alone with myself in the funeral parlour’s drab laboratory, the next I was in a dark, shadowy place that was somehow familiar to me.

I looked around. Yes, I’d been here before, but when? I remembered. I was here the night I was murdered. In this very room. A creepy basement flat. I recognized the desk and the angle-poise lamp, the cupboard against a wall, the dreary curtains. I remembered the shadows.

But why had I come here again? As I asked myself that question, I saw the newspaper clippings on the desk. On the last occasion I’d watched a man—what was it about that man that made me tremble now?—cutting up a newspaper, taking the clippings and placing them neatly alongside others. Others whose headlines screamed of murder and mutilation! I knew now and I’m sure I must have known then, even if I hadn’t acknowledged it, that the hunched figure was the killer himself. Had to be. Why else would he be cutting out those particular news items if not for his own scrap-book? Why collect them if the stories were not about himself? Actually, this logic meant nothing to me because, you see, I just knew that the person who occupied this dingy flat was the killer the police were looking for. Call it instinct, or psychic recognition—call it what you like. I was certain, that’s all. I had no doubt whatsoever.

And, I reflected, I had come here because some innate awareness that had nothing to do with logic or calculation had brought me here. After all, I was no longer in the world of reason or normality; I was existing on some other plane where thought—or the psyche—was all. This man (and I wrongly supposed this is why I trembled) was my killer. He murdered and mutilated me!

The trembling ceased. Ceased because in my out-of-body state I had frozen. And I had frozen because I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the window, the stairs that led down to the flat from street level. Then shuffling footsteps as they trod the short passageway.

And stopped outside the door.

20

I heard the key turning in the lock, nothing smooth about the sound. Then the door was pushed open with some effort, as though its edges were tight or out of skew with the frame. A dark figure shambled through, with hardly any light let into the room from behind him. It was still daylight outside, but it seemed to have difficulty reaching into this place below the street. The door closed with a short grinding noise, wood against perished wood, and once more the deep shadows consumed most of the interior.

A ceiling light flicked on, but its power was belittled by the general gloom, even though the dusty hanging bulb was without a shade.

The figure stood just inside the street door for a moment, as if alerted to my presence, and this gave me a chance to take a better look. I didn’t like what I saw, not one bit.

Other than by his strange attire, I don’t think his best friend would have recognized him (although I doubted this scruffy individual had a friend, let alone a best one: apart from his general shoddiness, he seemed to exude unpleasantness. Or maybe my own fragile imagination was doing him a disservice, I thought at the time). He wasn’t tall, just kind of bulky, and he wore a dark oversized raincoat that trailed almost to the floor. Covering his head was one of those old-fashioned trilby hats, with the wide brim snapped down in front, shadowing his eyes; and wrapped around his face—literally around his face, for it covered everything but his eyes—was a heavy, knitted navy scarf, whose ends were tucked into the breast of the raincoat.

He looked ready to rob a post office.

He didn’t move, just stood there inside the threshold, broad but sloping shoulders slouched, and I caught the glimmer of his eyes in their black pits, reflections of the lightbulb that moved from side to side as if they were searching for something. A couple of times they seemed to settle on me, but after a beat they’d move on, continuing to search. Could he feel my presence? If so, he seemed to be the only person who could. Even Primrose hadn’t sensed me, and I’d always thought kids were particularly susceptible where that kind of thing was concerned. Kids and animals. When he suddenly made a move in my direction, I hurriedly backed away. Dark eyes that were bulging and set wide seemed to stare directly at me from out of the umbra beneath his hat brim. But again, and to my relief, they passed on to stare into the gloom beyond me. This was one person I didn’t want to be seen by.

With that same odd snuffling sound he’d made the last time I was here, he turned away and took a rolled-up newspaper from one of the raincoat’s deep pockets. He threw it on the table, the draught it caused disturbing the newspaper clippings that remained on the surface from the other night, so that one or two fell lazily to the floor. He unfurled the journal, and laid it on the desk, then, looking again at the headline, he undid the buttons of the coat.

Moving to one side for a better view, I saw that the newspaper was the late edition Evening Standard and its headline screamed at me: “AXE KILLER’S 4th VICTIM NAMED”.

Without any doubt whatsoever, I knew the fourth victim referred to was me. In whatever dimension I now existed, some kind of psychic gift came with the territory, and that’s why I was drawn to this place. My murderer was being shown to me. And I had to wonder why? Was this punishment for past misdemeanours? Was this my own personal hell, my killer revealed with nothing I could do about it? My own torment of the gods? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t happy about it.

The man hadn’t yet shed the raincoat, although it was unbuttoned; he just stood hunched over the journal, knuckles pressed against the tabletop, his head hung low so that from behind he looked decapitated. He gazed at the headline before him. No, he was reading beyond the headline; he was reading the text. I drew closer to the desk, but well to the side of the bowed figure. I didn’t want to be that close to him. Hell, I didn’t want to be in the same room as him!

I saw the photograph of myself beneath the block type, a company shot, in fact, one showing me a few years younger.* It was weird reading of my own death and heartbreaking to see a smaller, inset picture of Andrea standing on our doorstep, distress evident in her drawn features; next to her, an arm thrown protectively around her shoulders, was Oliver. In the background, I could make out the figure of Primrose, shyly peeking around her mother’s hip. I could have cried for them all.

*When we’d started the agency, Oliver, Sydney and I had had to have the standard headshots both for the trade rag Campaign and for our own prospectus, so they were formal black-and-white portraits without an inch of personality uncovered. This was one from that bunch and the Evening Standard must have poached it from the magazine’s photo archives, or from our agency itself.

Without warning, the newspaper was picked up and hurled across the dingy room, its pages separating and falling to the floor in disarray. Still angry, the hunched man swept all the clippings, together with the long-bladed scissors I’d watched him use a few nights ago, off the table. He banged the wood and made another of those horrible snuffling/snorting noises.

I dodged out of his way when he whirled round and took a couple of paces towards me. Foolishly, I felt vulnerable, even though I was sure that I could not be seen. Or maybe it was fear of his body invading my space so that I’d share his feelings. I thought that might somehow be very unhealthy.

He paused, again glancing this way and that, his black eyes searching the oppressive room. Scared, I backed further away, finding a spot in a dim corner and holding my breath in case he heard (although air wasn’t necessary for my existence, something in me insisted on carrying on as normal; I was sure if I put a hand over my heart I would still feel it beating). To my relief, the man saw nothing, even if he did stare into my corner for a couple of uncomfortable seconds. He gave a kind of wet growl and I wondered again if he was suffering from a very bad cold, which would explain wearing the raincoat and scarf in the flat. I was soon to learn otherwise.

He turned his back to me again and went to the newspaper now lying in an untidy heap on the floor, shrugging the coat off as he did so, letting it drop from his shoulders. Then he removed the hat and I saw his thin mousy-coloured hair was dirty and lank, long strands at the back tucked into the scarf, bald patches showing through, catching the light, such as it was. Leaning forward, the scarf ends dangling in front of him, he shuffled the paper together again in a loose collection, and laid it on the table. He was staring at the front page with its monochrome picture of me and the smaller inset of Andrea, Oliver and Prim, when he began to unwind the scarf.

I started to panic as he turned and came towards me again, drawing the coarsely knitted scarf from his neck. He paused in front of me and tossed the scarf onto the newspaper- and magazine-cluttered sofa, catching me by surprise, the scarf sailing right through me.

It was at that moment that I looked fully into his face. Or lack of face, I should say.

It must have been shock that made me forget the first time I’d confronted him in this dismal place, because now I remembered instantly. Now I saw it again in all its horribly obscene ugliness.

In fact, this face was not unlike my own after he’d cleaved it down the middle, probably with that axe mentioned in the Standard, except mine had had something at least resembling a nose and mouth, whereas here there was only emptiness, a cavern where features should have been, a dark hole with raw gristle around its edges and something fat and black resting inside like a lazy glistening slug.

It was huge, this open wound, a gaping maw with tendrils of saliva drooling inside, the tip of the slug stirring as if roused. Only the eyes appeared normal, but closer inspection showed even they were wide-set, black and bulging like those of a frog. And there was something in their shine, a madness—no, a malevolence—that was more ghastly than the malformation.

If ghosts can faint, then that’s what I did.

21

Oblivion.

I don’t know where I went, what happened to me, unless it was some kind of mind wipeout, engendered by the sight of that man’s—that thing’s—awful countenance. Or the absence of. I only know that I became lost in some place where neither time nor thought had relevance.

What was I but mind? And maybe, as in life, the mind has to close down for periods of time. Maybe even the psyche needs recovery.

Maybe it was just a hint of the true death yet to come to me. Maybe I was in the transient stage, lingering between existence and complete obliteration. Maybe there was no heaven or hell, only a time to reflect before extinction. I had no idea then.

I have now though.

22

I surfaced again on the day of my funeral.

I had no idea how long I’d blanked out for, nor could I recollect any dreams from my unconscious state. I could remember that awful dingy basement room though. But now there were other things to occupy my mind.

I loitered in the road outside my house, watching the various vehicles park and people—friends and acquaintances mainly, a few other faces I didn’t recognize—emerge to pull raincoat collars tighter around their necks, umbrellas blooming against the cold drizzle. No cars could park directly in front of the house, for a hearse and two dark limousine cars occupied the space.

I observed my mother arrive in a taxi, watched her climb out and walk up the drive, head bowed, but steps taken with a deliberate dignity. Heads turned, following her progress, and I heard the murmurs as the little plump lady in black’s identity was passed among the mourners. I don’t know why I lingered outside so long, rain passing through me without deflection—perhaps I didn’t want to be in a room full of miserable people, absorbing their sadness every time I unavoidably made contact. Eventually though, I felt the overwhelming need to be closer to Andrea and Primrose, but as I moved into the driveway, the front door opened and sombre-suited figures began to leave, led by a tall but stooped man dressed in a black long-tailed suit and pin-stripe charcoal trousers, the funeral director, I assumed. He was followed by Sydney Presswell, and then Andrea’s parents (whom I’d always got on pretty well with), a couple of advertising associates, then Oliver guiding a distraught Andrea, an arm around her shoulders for support, her hand clasping Primrose’s. My daughter’s face was pale, with dark patches under her red-rimmed eyes, while Andrea’s face was covered by a black lace veil. I could see that her eyes were cast downwards.

I stifled a sudden sob, even though no one could possibly hear. I wanted to rush forward and embrace them both, tell them there was no pain for me, nor had there been any at my moment of death. I wanted them to know that I was with them now in their time of grief. But just to be near would mean passing through others, so I hung back and watched from a distance as they went to the big limo behind the hearse. On a velvet-covered stand inside the hearse was a big expensive-looking coffin. It was made of beautifully grained yew, my favourite wood.

I was tempted to try claiming my own body one last time, repossess my life—can you imagine the astonished faces of the crowd if the coffin lid pulled aside and a dead man climbed out? I knew it would be pointless, though: my corpse would already be beginning to deteriorate despite the mortician’s best efforts to delay the process. Let’s face it, I wouldn’t be looking my best.

Leave it, I told myself. There is no going back.

Primrose, my once oh-so-happy little girl, was helped into the limousine and I fought against a desperate desire to climb in beside her. But, trivial as it might sound, I wondered where I would sit. Andrea had climbed in after Prim, followed by her parents and my mother. And there was Oliver too, occupying the passenger seat beside the driver. Six, plus the driver, was probably full capacity, even if one was only a half-pint.

Others had started to follow, getting into their cars and switching on the engines. Grey vapours were coming from exhaust pipes like swirling ghosts in the cold, damp, morning air. It was no longer raining, but the day was overcast and dull, perfect for a funeral. The hearse pulled away and proceeded slowly along the avenue, Andrea’s limo trailing it, more falling in behind, the cortege speeding up only slightly when it turned into the busy main road. I glided alongside the long car carrying Andrea and Primrose, peering into the side windows to catch a glimpse of them. Prim’s face was buried into her mother’s side, and Andrea’s own face remained concealed beneath the veil. I hardly needed prompting, but I realized again how precious your own family was. They are a man’s unit. They go beyond parents and siblings; they had to mean so much more to you. They own you and you own them, not in any selfish way, but in terms of responsibility. They are a huge part of you and help define who you are. And mutual trust is the cloth that binds. Remember I said that.

I was struck by the courtesy shown to the funeral procession, both by other road users and pedestrians. On two occasions I witnessed elderly men remove their hats as a mark of respect when the hearse passed them, but the biggest surprise came when a baggy-trousered youth in a camouflage jacket whipped off his reversed baseball cap and made a quick Sign of the Cross as we drew level. Other drivers were remarkably patient with the slow pace, and one bus driver even refused to overtake when there was plenty of room to do so. I have to admit, their regard touched me.

On we went and it was easy for me to glide alongside, my feet touching tarmac only now and again, but the misery bleeding from the limousine carrying my nearest and dearest was palpable and I was beginning to feel sorry again not only for them, but for myself. I suppose all of us have at one time or another wondered what it would be like to be a guest at our own funeral, and I can honestly tell you this: it’s no fun at all.

I shouldn’t have been shocked, but there you go: I was. Totally. I hadn’t expected the funeral cortege to pull into a crematorium.

They were going to burn me.

I really hadn’t anticipated that. Why should it matter if I were dead anyway? I don’t know. It just did.

Maybe I hadn’t entirely given up reclaiming my life, sinking back inside my body and willing it to move. It would scare the hell out of everybody and I’d have to spend years undergoing operations and a lot of plastic surgery, but what did I care? Anything to be flesh and blood again.

No. The burning of my flesh and bones meant the end of me. Possibly I was doomed to roam the earth (or hang around my house) for the rest of eternity as an entity, a shade, wraith or ghost; a lost soul, a spirit, a bogeyman, a spectre, a wandering phantom, a disembodied being—there were all kinds of names for what I’d become. Yet I didn’t feel any one of them was truly me. And now, to have what I was reduced to warm ashes—well it left me without any connection at all to the world I knew, not even the proof that I’d once lived.

Andrea and I had never discussed our individual deaths, had never made any plans for whoever was to go first. I was certain I’d never mentioned cremation at any point in our life together, probably because when you’re young and healthy it isn’t the kind of thing you want to think about. I suppose I’d just assumed that one day I’d be buried. After all, I was a Catholic, a bad one, I know, but nobody had ever banned me from the club, and Catholics were not meant to be cremated. Or didn’t it matter anymore, had the rules changed without my knowledge? Maybe nobody had bothered to tell me. Perhaps it had become like eating meat on a Friday, reduced in the ranks from most grievous sin to no sin at all. Maybe it no longer necessarily meant that my soul would be condemned to the fires of hell throughout eternity. Maybe these things were not as important anymore. Like missing mass on Sunday—a mortal sin I’d been assured by nuns and priests when I was a child. Like masturbation. God, the guilt I’d suffered. Things changed in the more popular religions, centuries-old dogma suddenly modified or just plain recanted because the church had to keep up with the times, had to modify to fit in more easily with today’s society in which values had diminished and morality was politically incorrect. We told you that, did we? Sorry, but there’s been a change in policy. All those who committed what they thought was mortal sin throughout the centuries agonizing over it, punishing themselves for it. Well, they’d understand when they finally reached nirvana. So what else isn’t really a mortal sin anymore? Well have to get back to you on that one.

And they wondered why people had become cynical about religion these days.

Anyway, none of that really mattered to me right then. It hadn’t been a huge revelation to me that I’d found neither heaven nor hell after my death, so why was I bitching now? Oh yeah, I was annoyed that I was going to be cremated.

It was an imposing (imposing while remaining understated) red building set among splendid lawns and gentle rises. A tall tower, which obviously was a chimney stack, rose from the rear of the building, and inside the entrance vestibule was a glass door tastefully marked “Chapel”. Everybody alighted from their vehicles, and followed the coffin, which was respectfully carried on the shoulders of four pallbearers, into the red-brick crematorium. There had been other cars waiting when the cortege had arrived, people standing around in groups, making polite and suitably reverential conversation, and I began to feel humbled by the large turnout. I hadn’t realized so many people had liked me—there were even some of my business clients among them—and felt the need to pay their respects. I saw familiar faces that I hadn’t set eyes on for years; friends, acquaintances, even my lawyer. There were also a lot of faces I didn’t know, wives or husbands, partners of people who knew me when I was alive. The sight of all those mourners made me gulp. Again, I wanted to cry.

Into the chapel they filed, voices hushed, movement slow, and I waited for a break to slip through. I could have entered via the red-brick wall itself, but for some reason I wanted to do things as normally as possible. I drifted down to the front pew where I knew I’d find the two people dearest in the world to me.

Andrea and Primrose sat in the middle of the front bench, Andrea’s parents by the side of her, my mother next to Prim, whose poor little face was puffy with new tears. My wife had lifted her veil and her face was drawn, her skin ashen. Behind them sat Oliver and Sydney, members of our staff filling the rest of the row. Sydney’s expression was grim but passive; Oliver’s eyelids looked sore, as if he had wept a lot himself these past few days.

I sat on a raised dais at the centre of which was a plain, linen-covered altar bearing a wooden crucifix. I wanted to look at the feces of my friends and family, silently to thank each and every one for attending. There must have been a hundred or more people there and I was filled with a sad warmth, suddenly loving and missing them all. If only I could communicate, let them know that I was fine, that physical pain never followed you into death. In fact, very few physical sensations did, for I was neither warm nor cold, I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. And the weariness I felt was of the soul, with nothing physical to it. All other sensations were merely remembered.

I leaned against the lectern.

The service seemed to pass very quickly. No hymns were sung, but Grieg and Beethoven were played through the adequate sound system. It was soft and gentle and almost composed to evoke tears. The priest said a few words, indicating I was a good man if not a particularly religious one. The fact that he’d never actually met me didn’t deter him from showering me with praise that I felt I hadn’t deserved and was probably attributed to all the deceased, no matter who they were, in every service he conducted. To my surprise, it was Sydney who went to the lectern for the eulogy; I’d expected Oliver to say some kind words about me. When I looked at his wretched face I guessed he had probably been too afraid of breaking down halfway through his speech to take on the responsibility. We’d known each other for a long time and been through many highs and lows together.

I won’t repeat Sydney’s generous words about me; suffice to say that there were quite a few loud sobs and sniffles here and there amongst the congregation, as well as much blowing of noses. Andrea kept her head low so that I could not see her face, while Primrose softly cried against her mother’s breast throughout, a short length of material, known as her “Bit of Blank”, held in her hand so that she could stroke her own cheek with it. The material was all that remained of the pink blanket she had constantly carried around with her since she’d been a toddler. After years and years of wear and washing, the wool had finally disintegrated into tatters, and eventually only the silk trim at one end was left. She clung to the remnant as if the whole blanket, her comfort blanket, still survived, taking it to bed with her every night, nowadays even a little thumb finding its way into her mouth as she softly rubbed the silk fabric against her cheeks and nose. Naturally, she had it with her on this grimmest of days, but I could tell it offered small comfort.

Next to her, my mother sat stony-faced. As usual I felt I’d let her down, but today I didn’t give a damn. Today I cared only about those who truly loved me.

By the end of Sydney’s sentimental eulogy (he praised me for having far too many exemplary qualities) I was at the back of the altar, head in hands, and blubbing like a fool. I guess we’ve all wondered what our friends would say about us when we were gone and on this miserable autumnal day I was finding out. His words didn’t swell me with pride but, as before, they humbled me. Love for my friends, each and every one of them in that chapel today, expanded within me almost to bursting point. It was both beautiful and an infinitely sad experience.

There was silence for a while as the priest asked the congregation to think of me and how much I had meant to their individual lives. My wails would have filled the chapel if they could have been heard. I would have been an embarrassment. Then the worst part.

Somewhere out of sight, someone pushed a button and the coffin, which was positioned on a unit at the side of the altar, began to trundle backwards, velvet curtains behind it smoothly opening. The rumble of small rollers turning was minimal and, in any case, was soon drowned out by the piece of music that accompanied my last journey. It was a modern piece, but head and shoulders above any of its contemporaries, and I’m sure Andrea chose it because she knew it was a favourite of mine, one of the most soulful songs ever sung, REM’s “Everybody Hurts”. It would bring a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes at any time, but God, at my own funeral—I lost it completely.

I went from one side of the altar to the other, throwing myself at the moving coffin, bawling in despair. Please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me! You don’t know what you’re doing! I’m not dead, I’m not dead!

Nobody could hear, and nobody would believe it anyway. But by God, I believed! At that moment I truly thought that nothing was irreparable, nor irretrievable; I could be saved, it wasn’t hopeless!

I beat my fists on the coffin lid (funny, but my fists never went through the wood; it was as if my mind would not allow them to, that I was still clinging to some form of reality as I knew it, and this, in itself, fashioned my abilities) and I called out, crying for them to stop the service, save my body. Naturally, no one took any notice.

The coffin was moving away from me and I didn’t like the darkness beyond the curtains. As soon as the coffin was out of view and the drapes closed behind it, it would be placed inside a furnace to be incinerated by gas fires, and I didn’t want to be present when that happened. It would be the final confirmation of my bodily demise, after which I’d be completely lost. Irrational, maybe, but as long as my body was still around, I felt I still had some connection to the world I knew and loved.

But it rumbled onwards to the raw, emotive voice of Michael Stipes, and so I realized it truly was the end of me as a person. I fell to the floor in utter despair and when I looked pleadingly at my family, all I saw was their faces contorted with grief, their tears flowing freely, shoulders convulsing. Even Mother had silver trickles falling from her eyes. In the second row, Sydney was stoic, while Oliver’s head was lowered, his eyes closed. Never had I seen my former business partner and friend look so thoroughly wrecked.

My own head dropped and I was on my hands and knees before the disappearing coffin. I sensed the curtains close and I envisaged the gas jets flaming into life. I didn’t want to think about the rest of it.

I was the last one to leave the chapel although, of course, the last person to leave didn’t know that. I wept copiously, allowing myself the emotion, aware that I would never function properly (however that might be in my present state of being) until I’d shed the worst of my tears. But finally, even I had had enough and I longed for my wife and daughter again.

Moving down the centre aisle, I passed an old boy who’d just entered and was collecting the order of service leaflets. He must have been in his late seventies and by the look of him—he was bent and frail, yellow-skinned—he might well have a more serious appointment at the crematorium before too long. Now I might have been wrong, but I’m sure he shuddered as I went by, and as I turned to look back, he seemed to be peering, squinty-eyed, directly at me. He gave a little shrug and continued to pick up the leaflets as I wondered if those close to death themselves could perceive or “sense” things that others could not. It was odd, but I had more immediate thoughts on my mind. Perhaps just my presence by Andrea and Primrose’s side would somehow give them subconscious comfort. I could only hope and wish.

Outside, the crowd had fanned out and conversation was rife, although quiet and respectful, some of the mourners examining the tribute wreaths and bouquets that had been carefully arranged against a wall. I even heard subdued laughter break out here and there, no doubt relief that the worst was over. I hoped it was some funny but affectionate anecdote about me that had caused the merriment. I wanted them to remember the good times, but to my surprise and, I’m embarrassed to admit, to my slight chagrin, hardly any conversations overheard as I drifted among them, careful not to touch, were centred on me and what a great guy I’d been and how much they’d miss me now that I was gone. Sure, I was mentioned, but almost in passing. The weather and the latest government smoke-and-mirrors fraud got more air time than I did. I didn’t expect a great wailing and gnashing of teeth, but I’d have liked a bit more talk about good ol’ Jim and his talent and sense of humour, stuff like that. Maybe there’d be more gratifying remembrances later, back at the house. I certainly hoped so.

I noticed there were one or two photographers and persons with notebooks or mini-cassette recorders, no doubt journalists from both the local and national newspapers. It wasn’t just my death that was big news; it was to do with the fact that I was one among four suspected of being murdered by the same killer. It was the serial killer who was the real news, but my funeral would help fill extra space. I also spotted another photographer taking shots of the crowd, but he did not look like the other photo-journos—he’d bothered to wear a dark suit and black tie. I realized he was a police lensman, there hopefully to catch a shot of anyone acting suspiciously, a loner, someone who was not part of the general gathering. The police were looking for their killer here and I began to scan the mourners more intensely myself.

Nobody looked out of place to me though. I did spy the two police detectives who had attended the scene of crime at the hotel. Coates and Simmons, if I remembered correctly. Then someone else caught my eye, a lone figure standing on a small grassy knoll beneath a tree, perfectly still as he watched proceedings. Now this was the odd part.

Although he was at least three hundred yards away, somehow I knew he was looking directly at me. He was tall, but his figure was vague, kind of washed out as if he were a faded colour reproduction on thin film. Despite that, there was something familiar about him; I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. Thing was, I couldn’t remember where.

And as I observed him, he raised an arm as if waving to me. Then he was gone. Vanished. A true ghost you might say.

23

Andrea didn’t hold a proper wake for me. It was more of an exclusive reception back at the house, only a chosen few amongst the mourners invited. I understood perfectly: what wife would want a big memorial party when her husband had been murdered so vilely? Speaking for myself, I wasn’t in the mood for one either. All I wanted to do was get close to Primrose, put my invisible arms around her, and whisper in her ear: “Don’t worry about Daddy.”

It was a suitably sombre affair, and to my relief and, I’m sure, to Andrea’s, people soon made their excuses and began to leave. At least now, in the house, I was the subject of most conversations, particularly when they were between my wife and guests. I caught some nice comments about myself and began to wallow in the discovery that I was a pretty good guy, a brilliant art director who could also produce slick but smart copy headlines and had a keen sense of humour. I started to like myself a bit more—my former self, that is. Sydney Presswell was one of the first to leave and I had to smile. Typical Sydney; business took precedence over all else, even the death of a friend and colleague. It was a weekday after all (although I had no idea what day it was now) and I kind of admired him for his pragmatism. I wondered if they were still going to pitch for that new banking account and decided no, there wouldn’t be time enough to bring in another creative team, brief them, and produce first-rate work. Maybe he and Oliver would let it go out of respect for me. Ollie certainly wouldn’t be in any condition to see it through.

Others soon followed and I sat on the stairway outside the lounge and watched them depart. Although not all the mourners who had attended the funeral had been invited back to the house, the lounge had been full to overflowing and some of the guests had spilled into the kitchen. I’d kept my eyes on Primrose through the lounge doorway for most of the time as she sat on her granddad’s lap in an armchair; her face wan, cheeks grubby from wiped tears. I noticed that my mother had not returned from the crematorium, obviously having cadged a lift from someone or, more likely, had herself dropped off at the first tube station or taxi rank along the route. Andrea had been a tower of strength, going from group to group, making sure everyone had something to eat—tiny sandwiches and vol-au-vents—and enough to drink—sherry or hard liquor, as well as tea and soft stuff. Occasionally, I would see Oliver squeeze her arm for support and I mentally thanked him for being there for her. Our argument seemed so pointless now, so unimportant, and I deeply regretted our parting on such a sour note.

I noticed Andrea now having a quiet word with Primrose, then taking her hand to lead her from the room. Pushing myself against the wall (nearly through it, actually—I still hadn’t fully mastered my new-found capabilities) so that they could pass by without touching me, I saw their faint auras close up, and they were dull, greyish in tone, no vibrancy to them. I hadn’t known that misery could be so palpable. As soon as they were past, I followed them up to Prim’s cheerful little bedroom, with its old Shrek and Little Mermaid posters on the walls, bookcase full of brightly coloured jacket spines, dolls—lots of dolls—arranged in civilized repose on top of a pine cabinet, yellow wallpaper with tiny blue flowers matched with blue-and-yellow curtains. Usually it raised my spirits just to walk in there—not even the small Ventolin inhaler on the bedside cabinet would spoil my mood—but this day was not a normal day. Tears flowed again as soon as Prim lay on the narrow bed and Andrea murmured soothing words as she pulled off our daughter’s shoes.

“Why did Daddy have to die, Mummy?” Prim asked in a small, plaintive voice.

I could go on and tell you all that Andrea said in reply and more questions asked by Primrose, but I’m not going to. Enough to say they were in this vein: Why did God take away the second-most important person in the world to her? Why is God so cruel? Is Daddy happy where he is now, and if he is, why? Doesn’t he miss us? Will he come and get us soon? It’s not just heartbreaking to relate, it’s soul-wrecking too. And pertinent, you might think. Because there are no good answers to any of those questions, and there’s nothing that can remove or even alleviate the pain that those left behind have to endure. I began to get very angry. Not only did I have no satisfactory answers to those questions—and I’d always believed you found out the truth of things once you left this mortal coil—but I could not have reassured Prim even if I did. I was, myself, completely in the dark as to my state, my future and my purpose. Oh yes, my purpose. I did believe there was a reason for my condition—everything had a reason, a meaning, call it what you like—but I had no idea what mine was. So, as I say, I began to get angry.

I paced the room, raving to myself, while Andrea tenderly stroked our daughter’s forehead. She found Prim’s favourite comfort teddy, Snowy, and tucked it into her arms. My raging came to a temporary halt as I embraced both Andrea and Primrose in my own arms, frustrated that I could not hug them tight, squeeze them so hard that they would have lost breath. I don’t think I’d ever loved them both as much as I did at that moment. Nevertheless, their mood sank into me and now I had never known such despair.

Finally, Andrea gave Primrose one last hug and kiss, then left her lying on the bed, Snowy (what else would the aged teddy be called? Greyie?) hugged close to her chest, her eyes closed as if ready for sleep. But where was her comfort rag, her “Bit of Blank”? She would need it when she woke or stirred, but as hard as I searched the bedroom with my eyes, I could not find the short length of pink silk anywhere. I remembered she’d had it with her in the chapel and realized it must still be in the pocket of her coat hanging in the cloakroom downstairs. I called out to Andrea, who was tip-toeing towards the door, but of course, she didn’t hear me. I couldn’t fetch it myself and I groaned in frustration, called to Andrea again to no avail. Never had I felt so useless, so inadequate.

Andrea paused at the door and, one hand on the handle, looked back at Primrose. Our daughter was already asleep, exhausted by the trauma of the past few days. Andrea left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

I sat on the floor by the bed, pretending to stroke Prim’s hair and her back, almost believing I could feel her as I whispered words of comfort, hoping that somehow my words—or at least the sentiment behind them—would get through. Pretty soon, she was giving out tiny snores, but I stayed with her, continuing to whisper, telling her over and over again how much I loved her and that she shouldn’t be afraid, Daddy was okay and he was with her even though she could not see him. At one stage, her eyelids flickered and she murmured “Daddy”, but she was quickly away again, fast asleep, slowly and unknowingly coming to terms with my death. One day at a time, I told her. It will eventually become all right. You’ll always miss me, I hope, but the hurt will lessen and eventually fade. Never completely, but enough for you to carry on with your own life without this debilitating heartache. God, I loved her so much, and the thought of what I was losing almost tore me apart.

Although I wasn’t tired myself, I closed my eyes, content just to be with her for a while. Eventually, her chest rose and sank rhythmically and her grasp on Snowy loosened as she fell into a deeper sleep. I opened my eyes and looked out the window: it was getting dark outside.

Rising from the bedside and giving Prim one last simulated kiss, I went to the door and passed through it. There was that fleeting and odd moment of seeping through thin air and atoms (did I actually pass through the air between the atoms? I briefly wondered, remembering that nothing in this world of ours—of yours—is truly solid. Maybe that’s the secret of insubstantial ghosts walking through apparently substantial walls or doors), the sensation of being part of the door itself, then I was on the landing outside my daughter’s bedroom. I could hear the low tones of voices below, the sound indicating that most of the guests had left. Silence followed, then voices again. One was Andrea’s. I walked along the landing and turned the bend leading to the stairs. Rather than glide, I took the stairs one at a time, as if my life was normal and I had just finished reading Prim a bedtime story, ready for a vodka tonic, or perhaps a brandy, before dinner. That would have been nice. That would have been so nice. But that wasn’t the reality. No, surprise, shock, dismay and misery were the reality. My past life had not quite done with me.

They were kissing. Andrea and Oliver were in each other’s arms and they were kissing.

I froze there and gaped.

It wasn’t a kiss of condolence. It wasn’t a platonic kiss between old friends. It was a ravenous, lustful kind of kiss. The tongue-swallowing kind. The kind Andrea and I hadn’t shared for the last three or four years.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stared through the open door into the lounge and my knees almost gave way. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. My wife and my best friend. With me hardly dead five minutes. Was I crazy? Had my loss of body at last driven me crazy? It couldn’t be true.

They broke apart and it was only small consolation that Andrea was doing the pushing.

“No, we can’t,” she said breathlessly. “It isn’t right. Not so soon.”

Isn’t right? Not so soon? What the hell was she saying? It was… it was obscene!

“I’m sorry, Andrea.” He wouldn’t release his grip on her though. “I couldn’t wait any longer. It’s been such a rough few days.”

“How the bloody hell do you think it’s been for me?” she shouted back. “I never… I never wanted anything like this.”

His voice was anxious, but relatively calm compared to Andrea’s. Still he did not let her go.

She put her hands against his chest. “I loved him, Oliver. You must understand that. I still loved him.” There was a slight catch in her throat.

“Yes, I know.” He was looking intensely into her eyes. “But it wasn’t the same. It was never the way it is with us. Even when you first went to Jim, you still loved me.”

He tried to pull her close again, but Andrea resisted. I wished she’d resisted a few minutes ago.

“Primrose might come down,” she told him, her efforts to break away feeble.

“She’s dead to the world. Sorry, shouldn’t have put it that way. But the poor little mite is exhausted. She’ll sleep through the night if you’ll let her.”

Finally, Andrea did manage to free herself. Oliver attempted to grab her back.

“No!” This time her objection was fierce and Oliver took a pace backwards.

“All right, Andrea.” He kept his voice low, as if he might really wake Primrose. “It’s just been difficult keeping away from you when you’re going through so much.”

“How ironic is that?” She spat out the words contemptuously, but I knew they were directed at herself as much as my so-called friend. “What we’re doing is disgusting.”

Well, I went along with her there.

“You don’t mean it, Andrea. Just because he died in such a terrible way doesn’t mean what we have isn’t right.”

Isn’t right? He thought cheating on me was right? Before, I hadn’t believed my own eyes; now I couldn’t believe my ears. This hypocritical, two-timing bastard was justifying their treachery.

“But…”

He shook his head to stop her saying any more. “You needed me a few moments ago. Those were your true feelings, Andrea.”

“I need you now, but that’s not the point. It’s too soon, it’s too wrong.”

“How long do I have to wait?”

“I… I don’t know, Oliver. We have to give it time. We have to think of Primrose too.”

“And our friends? Your mother and father? His dreadful mother?”

My dreadful mother? Only I had the right to call her that.

“We have to do the proper thing for now.”

“You never stopped loving me, did you?” His eyes were wide, eyebrows raised. That old Oliver little-boy-lost look. Never failed. I’d seen him use it on men as well as women so many times, albeit in different circumstances. Had I ever honestly liked him?

“We shouldn’t even be discussing it. He was your best friend—don’t you feel any guilt?”

“Of course I do! I always have!” He was angry too. “But you should never have left me in the first place. You used Jim against me.”

“Of course I didn’t! How can you say that?” Andrea glanced towards the staircase as if afraid her raised voice had roused our daughter. For a moment, she seemed to be looking directly at me.

Then the doorbell rang, making all three of us jump.

Andrea opened the front door. On the doorstep stood DS Simmons and DC Coates. They must have followed the funeral cars back to the house, waiting outside until they thought everybody had left.

The taller of the two, Simmons, appeared to be spokesman. “Sorry to bother you on this sad occasion, Mrs True, but is Mr Oliver Guinane still with you? We’ve been waiting some time for him to leave so that we didn’t need to disturb you.”

Andrea looked behind her, her mouth open in surprise. Oliver was standing in the doorway of the lounge and only a few feet away from me.

“It’s all right, Andrea,” he said, “leave this to me.” His voice was calm, but I couldn’t help noticing there was an edge to it. Natural enough, I suppose, when two unfriendly-looking policemen confront you. “Can I help you?” he asked politely. Now I noticed how pale his face was.

“Yes, Sir. Detective Sergeant Simmons and Detective Constable Coates—we met you at the hotel on Monday.”

“Of course.” Oliver nodded to them both.

“May we come in?” Simmons asked Andrea courteously.

She hesitated, but only for a moment “I… I suppose so. My daughter is asleep upstairs.”

“We’ll be very quiet. Just some questions we need to ask Mr Guinane.”

Andrea opened the door wide and stepped to one side to allow the two policemen to enter.

Simmons and Coates stood in the hallway, looking awkward, but their eyes finding Oliver’s from time to time.

“As you probably know, Mrs True, DC Coates and I are working on the case of your husband’s murder.”

She nodded. “I noticed you at the funeral.”

“I hope we weren’t obtrusive in any way.”

“No. Unlike the Press people.”

“Yes.” Simmons pondered this for a second or two. “Newspaper people can be a nuisance sometimes. But there was nothing that we, as policemen, could do about it. Free Press, and all that.”

“It’s okay, I wasn’t blaming you.” She glanced at Oliver, who was still waiting in the doorway to the lounge. “Why did you want to see Oliver?”

Andrea seemed nervous to me, probably because of what she and my ex-friend had been up to a couple of minutes ago.

“Ah, I think that must be between Mr Guinane and us for now.” It was the shorter man, Coates, who had spoken. “It’s only a few simple questions, nothing formal. Shouldn’t take long.”

Andrea looked questioningly at Oliver, who had stepped aside from the door.

“I’ve no objection to Andrea being present. Shall we go through?” His hand indicated the lounge.

“Uh, no, Mr Guinane.” Simmons again. “Certainly we can talk wherever you suggest, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for Mrs True to be in on this.”

Quick, anxious looks were exchanged between Andrea and Oliver. Oliver started to protest, but Andrea interrupted.

“That’s all right, Sergeant,” she said. “I’ll check on my daughter and wait with her until you tell me I can come down.”

“Shouldn’t be too long,” Simmons promised this time.

I wasn’t prepared for the next moment. Andrea strode straight through me to climb the stairs and I almost sagged with the weight of the emotions that hit me. She was confused and unexpectedly frightened, all beneath a surging undercurrent of terrible grief. Fortunately, she passed on swiftly and mounted the stairs, her step weary.

Both detectives faced Oliver.

“Shall we go through, Sir?” suggested Coates, who had an undisguised glint in his eye as he regarded Oliver.

Oliver allowed them access, then followed into the room. I trailed in after Oliver.

He indicated, inviting both policemen to sit and they duly found places at either end of the sofa. As for me, I was in no mood to sit, because I was raging. I wanted to catch hold of my ex-friend and partner and throttle him there and then. I wanted to beat him to a pulp and, indeed, I took several swings at him, all of them useless, merely swiping through him as though he was nothing more than a hologram. I ranted. I kicked him where it really should have hurt, but he didn’t even flinch. God, I wanted to kill him!

But I could only wait and listen. The interview went something like this:

DS SIMMONS: “Mr Guinane, the other day you told us that you left the hotel on the night of James True’s murder and returned home.”

OLIVER: “Yes.”

DS SIMMONS: “Yet a neighbour of yours, an early riser who had a pet dog to let out into the apartment gardens, told us he saw you entering the apartments’ foyer around 6 a.m.”

OLIVER: Silence.

DC COATES: “You were empty-handed, so you couldn’t have been out to buy milk or the morning papers.”

OLIVER: Uncomfortable silence.

DS SIMMONS: “Do you wish to change your original statement, Sir?”

OLIVER: “I couldn’t sleep. I was kind of wired—you know Jim and I were working on a big campaign for a prospective client? It’s hard to relax after you’ve been dreaming up winning ideas half the night.”

DC COATES: “So you left the hotel suite quite early, did you? Sunday night, I mean.”

OLIVER: “Well, not that early. It must’ve been somewhere around midnight. I didn’t check my watch, had no reason to.”

DC COATES: “You were overheard having a violent argument with James True—”

OLIVER: “It was hardly violent. There’s bound to be creative differences from time to time. It goes with the territory and it’s never serious.”

DS SIMMONS: “The hotel’s night porter, who was collecting breakfast order cards, said the row sounded extremely serious when he passed by the room.”

OLIVER: “He’s wrong. We might have been a bit loud, but we didn’t come to blows or anything like that.”

DC COATES: “Isn’t it true that there was also a significant business disagreement between you both at this time?”

OLIVER: “We failed to agree on a forthcoming merger with a larger agency—I was pro, Jim was con—but it was hardly cause for murder, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

DS SIMMONS: “We’re not suggesting anything at this time.”

DC COATES: “You and True’s wife were lovers at one time, weren’t you?”

OLIVER: “Good God. Has somebody at the agency been gossiping? Our relationship was years ago, before Jim and Andrea were married. In fact, Andrea was actually my live-in partner before she decided on Jim. There’s been nothing between us since.”

ME: Huh!

DS SIMMONS: “Are you quite certain of that, Mr Guinane?”

OLIVER: “Of course I’m bloody certain!”

DS SIMMONS: “Well, we’ll leave that for now.”

ME: No, ask him more. He’s lying!

DC COATES: “A moment ago you mentioned being wired. Was that appertaining to drugs, Sir?”

OLIVER: “What?”

DC COATES: “Do you take drugs?”

OLIVER: “More idle chat at the agency?”

DS SIMMONS: “We’ve learned that your drug consumption was bad enough to cause problems more than once over the years, especially as far as Mr True was concerned.”

OLIVER: “That was a long time ago. I did marijuana, some coke, nothing really heavy. But now I’m clean. When I said wired, I meant uh, wound up. Wired is just a word we use in the game. You know—in advertising.”

DC COATES: “You ever heard of a Ruby Red, Mr Guinane?”

OLIVERcharacter.: “What are you talking about?”

DC COATES: “Ruby Red. Some of my colleagues call it a Rudolph. You know, Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.”

OLIVER: “What’s your point?”

DC COATES: “Well you see, one of the dead giveaways when someone’s doing a lot of coke is that the tip of the nose can get slightly sore. Not bright, not loud. You see a few celebs with it on television when their make-up’s worn off. Nothing too conspicuous, you understand, just a little redness on the tip. Like on the tip of your nose right now.”

OLIVER: “That’s nonsense! I gave all that up years ago.”

ME: Why are you lying, Ollie? What else are you hiding besides having an affair with my wife?

DC COATES: “Really?”

OLIVER: “You may not have noticed, but I lost a good friend this week. I’ve done some weeping, believe it or not.”

DS SIMMONS: “Why were you arguing with James True last Sunday night?”

OLIVER: “Oh, back to that again, is it? It was trivial, a little difference of opinion between friends. Jim thought I was on cocaine again.”

DC COATES: “Ah, so you are still on drugs.”

OLIVER: “I didn’t say that. I’ve admitted nothing. But look, do you seriously believe I killed my best friend and business colleague? I thought he was supposed to be the victim of a serial killer?”

DS SIMMONS: “It could easily have been set up to appear that way. A copycat murder. If someone wanted another person out of the way without becoming an obvious suspect, why not hide the motive among a series of same-such murders, let the serial killer take the blame. Unfortunately for the guilty party, Mr True’s death was not quite the same as in the previous killings. Not quite the same modus operandi, you see.”

OLIVER: “I don’t understand.”

DS SIMMONS: “In the first three cases, all the victims were dead some time before their bodies were mutilated. Although there was a certain amount of blood spilt because of the mutilations, it hadn’t travelled far. Their blood didn’t gush, for want of a better word. Whereas, in James True’s case the mutilation took place either immediately after death, or, more likely, just before, as far as we can tell. That’s why there was more blood spillage than with the previous three—his heart was still pumping it through the veins and arteries. It hadn’t begun to coagulate.”

OLIVER: “So presumably the killer would also be covered in blood.”

DC COATES: “You… I mean, the guilty party would have had plenty of time to clean himself. All night, in fact. And of course, he could have been wearing covering clothes—a plastic mac, gloves, things that could easily be hidden or thrown away afterwards.”

OLIVER: “Look, are you charging me with murder? If so, I’m saying nothing more without the presence of my solicitor.”

DS SIMMONS: “We’re not charging you with anything, Mr Guinane. At least, not for the time being. But we will be questioning you again in the next day or so, probably at New Scotland Yard, so if you feel you will need a solicitor, then I suggest you contact one as soon as possible.”

OLIVER: “This is preposterous! It’s completely insane!”

DS SIMMONS: “Just make sure you’re available to us, Sir. That’s all for now.”

Finding Oliver and Andrea together in a clinch had devastated me, left me weak (and there was worse to come); now, hearing Oliver more or less accused of my murder left me completely stunned. It wasn’t possible! Not Ollie. Not my best friend. No! Couldn’t be right! Yet… he’d betrayed me with Andrea. There was I, a few days cold, and he was passionately kissing my wife in my own home. How long had their affair been going on? A couple of weeks, a few months—a year? I had no idea, hadn’t noticed any signs. Andrea wouldn’t do this to me. Would she? She’d loved Oliver before me, so maybe the flame had never truly died. Oh dear God, how much more did I have to take? Had she ever been true to me?

I was literally drooping, my knees bent, shoulders hunched; I would have collapsed had I carried the weight of my physical form. I felt drained, my energy dissipated. But the two detectives were leaving and I wanted to hear more from them. I wanted to hear what they had to say to each other when they were out of earshot of the suspect. I followed them from the house, walking close behind as they made their way to their car parked further down the road.

“How did you know about the drugs?” I heard Simmons ask.

“The old Ruby,” Coates replied. His black hair was close-cropped. His frame was stocky and he looked tough, but not quite as hard as his stone-faced companion.

“Come on, Danny. A Ruby? We both know that’s rubbish.” Simmons, his beaky nose as sharp as a hatchet, was obviously impatient with his lower-ranking officer.

“Inside info,” Coates told him. “But I couldn’t let Guinane know about that.”

“You’ve been to the advertising agency?”

“You could say.”

“Without me? We’re supposed to be a team. Shit, we’re supposed to be part of a team.”

“I’ve got a connection, Nick.”

“Don’t be playing silly buggers with me. What about this business between Guinane and True’s wife? Some more inside gossip?”

“Well I wouldn’t call it gossip.” They had reached their car and Coates was fumbling inside a trouser pocket for the key. He was grinning across the roof of the Vauxhall at Simmons.

“Okay, that’s enough, Danny.” Simmons was not at all amused. “You got me to come here after the funeral to talk to Guinane and we’ve had to hang around for hours. I’m not fucking about now—what’s going on?”

“Well it turns out that True’s wife used to be Guinane’s girlfriend before she married True.”

“Yeah, we know that. So?”

“My source tells me the affair took off again shortly after the marriage. And it’s still going on.”

“Christ. Another reason for Guinane to resent his business partner.”

“Right. That and the merger dispute. And, of course, we know that True’s murder didn’t follow the same pattern as the others.”

“What, the weird stuff the first three victims got up to before they were topped?”

“That’s it. Two of ‘em—the men—visited prostitutes before they died, right? Something that apparently was totally out of character for them. And we got that from close friends of both. We only found out that they had used brasses when we retraced their movements before death.”

“A lot of people have dark secrets that nobody else knows about.”

“Sure. We can’t be certain that neither one had done it before. But both were successful, good-looking guys, professionals, one an insurance broker, the other a lawyer. The first one had a gorgeous-looking wife, remember?”

Simmons nodded as he rested an arm on the car’s rooftop.

“Would you wander if you had someone as stunning as her to come home to?”

“Probably not. But y’know, the old adage—a bit of rough now and again. Change is the biggest aphrodisiac.”

“Okay. Could happen. But what about the second guy?”

“Again, maybe something different.”

“Going off with a rent boy when the guy wasn’t even gay?”

“As I said, dark secrets.”

“Yeah, but his partner—another great looker, by the way—told us there was nothing bent about her live-in boyfriend. Quite the opposite, as it happens. According to his friends he’d been quite a stud man and only ever looked at women. A bit homophobic, too—and don’t tell me that’s a sign of latent homosexuality because we both know that’s crap.”

“All right, I know all that. As you say, out of character. But we’ve both been in the business long enough to know people can do some surprising things.”

“Okay. So then there’s the third victim, the woman.”

“Oh yeah. Now that was a bit weird.”

“Weird? It was fucking ridiculous. She was an attractive thirty-year-old, married to a wealthy banker, fashionably dressed and, by all accounts, bright and socially gracious. Why the fuck would she suddenly prostitute herself? We found witnesses who said she’d been making a nuisance of herself around Shepherd Market, near where her body was eventually dumped. Shit, the local brasses were complaining because she was trespassing on their turf.”

“I know. Makes no sense at all.”

“Y’think?” Coates raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Well, they all engaged in some bizarre activities, things that might have put them in danger.”

“All except James True.”

“Yup, doesn’t follow the pattern. He was working for his agency the whole weekend and, as far as we know, he never left the hotel, nor did anything exceptional. And no hookers of either sex went up to his suite—again, as far as we know.”

“The only thing that fits the pattern was that he was youngish, good-looking and successful, and the same kinds of murder weapon were used, but in a different order of usage. The point, though, is that his business partner, this Oliver Guinane guy, didn’t know about that, nor the peculiar activities of the previous three victims. No one did, we kept it to ourselves.”

“SIO’s orders. Partly because we didn’t want the closest relatives to suffer more over the publicity it would have caused, but mainly because we want to keep the similarities to ourselves for now.”

“Right. The public wasn’t made aware through the media because we put a block on it. Guinane certainly wouldn’t have known. I think that’s where he slipped up, not that he could have done anything about it, anyway.”

“Because of the theory that the killer either blackmailed or threatened the victims to commit those out-of-character acts. Maybe said he’d kill the victim’s family.”

“Exactly.”

“But he would have had to know about the murder weapons.”

“So he found out. We can’t keep everything out of the public domain. Loose talk at the Yard got out, spread elsewhere. He could even have picked the info up in a pub. Guinane’s a writer, who’s to say he doesn’t mix with journos? You know how they gab after a couple of drinks.”

Simmons shook his head doubtfully. “I dunno, Dan. You’re stretching it a bit. Anyway if he knew about the weapons, why wasn’t he aware of which one was used first?”

“Trust me on this,” Coates said, grinning at his colleague. “Even reporters have a conscience. Maybe they don’t want it to get out. At least not yet. They’re obeying our rules on that.”

“We’ve still got no strong evidence against Guinane. Come on, it’s bloody cold out here. Let’s get in the car and on the way back you can tell me more about your source.”

Coates chuckled as he opened the car door and ducked inside. “You’ll believe me when I do,” I heard him say.

They were both slamming doors shut before anything else was said. They drove off leaving me standing by the kerbside, with nothing to do but stare after them and wonder.

24

Then, for me, there came a time of wandering. I was depressed, confused, afraid—and I felt completely helpless. The police suspected Oliver of my murder, the plan for it to appear as the work of a mad serial killer apparently not wholly successful. I had thought he was my friend, now I knew he had betrayed me. Betrayed me with my wife. How bad could it get? (Funny how often, when you ask yourself that question, things invariably manage to get worse; this was no exception.) I was totally alone, seemingly abandoned by God himself. My body was dead, yet I didn’t seem to be. No, I didn’t even think I was a ghost, because aren’t ghosts supposed to see other ghosts? I’d caught weird and fleeting glimpses of things that might once have been living beings (I remembered the almost limpid but familiar face that had lingered at a distance twice now, once when I was in my teens, and then at my funeral) but all were non-communicative and only temporary. So what was my destiny? To walk the earth for all eternity, a kind of spirit nomad that had no purpose? Maybe this was Hell.

I didn’t return to the house that afternoon. I didn’t want to look at Andrea. I just couldn’t. As much as I hungered to be with Prim, I wanted to be as far away from my unfaithful wife as possible. Love should be an honest thing, but how often is it? I wanted to scream with rage, howl in despair, but what would be the point? No one would hear, no one would care.

I drifted away from my home.

Ask yourself how you’d feel if you became invisible. What fun, right? The places you could go, the people you could spy on. And imagine you weren’t even solid anymore, that nothing could touch or harm you. A lot more fun, yeah?

Well, you’d be wrong. Doesn’t work that way, you see. At least, not if you’re traumatized like I was. In my own view, I was the walking dead on a journey of discovery and disillusionment, the main discoveries so far being that in my lifetime I’d been betrayed by my mother (How could she have hidden my father’s letters from me? How could she rip up the photograph of her only son with such loathing in her eyes, just because I’d had the audacity to die on her and, to make it worse, in the most public of ways?); by my own father who, despite those unread letters, had run out on me when I was only a child; betrayed by my best friend and business partner, and by the woman I’d loved all these years and who had borne my daughter. People I’d loved and respected during my time on earth (except for my father, for whom I had no feelings whatsoever) had deceived me.

With that heavy load dragging on me, I made my lonely way back to the city.

I visited places: the cinema, theatre, bars and hotels, family homes, the zoo (where tigers growled as I went by and monkeys yattered; most animals ignored me as I passed their cages and pens, only a few showing an awareness of me, watching suspiciously as though my presence disturbed them). I became an observer of life, of people, singling out particular individuals who looked interesting, sharing their day or night’s routine with them.

I sat at the side of theatre stages and watched great actors perform, even stood among the back chorus line of one musical production and sang along with them; I strolled through parks and took bus rides; I watched children in playgrounds and classrooms, and thought of Primrose, yearning for her, desperately wanting to see her again, to hold her, kiss her chubby little cheek, to whisper how much I loved and missed her… But I resisted the urge to return home, still consumed with anger and dismay because of Andrea’s adultery and Oliver’s treachery, telling myself that going back would only worsen my pain. For the best part of one day I travelled on the underground’s continuous Circle Line, studying the commuters, listening to their conversations, envying them their physicality, their humanness. Occasionally, I’d meld into one or other unsuspecting passenger, just to get a feel of life again, glimpsing his or her thoughts, sensing their emotions. And it was all rather uncomfortable and dull, through no fault of theirs though; the dullness, the disinterest, came from within myself. Even one young guy’s lurid reverie of the sexual activity he and his girlfriend had enjoyed the previous night and his daydream of its continuance this coming evening failed to spark anything in me. It was like watching a blue movie with better production values, yet I felt neither desire, nor envy—the images didn’t even cause me an erection (although it seemed to work for him okay, but I wasn’t part of that). Perhaps if I’d possessed pigment the embarrassment might have coloured me red, but as it was, I merely slipped out of him, bored with his private imagining. My guess is that when you no longer have the power to procreate physically, then your psyche dismisses the arousal instinct, renders such urges redundant. Certain paraplegics might dispute the point, but then they’re still flesh and blood; when you are nothing, you become detached—literally; you don’t lose emotions such as love and hatred (witness my resentment), and you certainly can yearn, but sex isn’t in the game anymore. Believe me, I’ve tested myself (you don’t forget the memory of desire).

You may wonder if any individual I invaded felt my presence and I’d have to answer no, not really, save for a slight shiver each one gave. The merest frisson of interrupted energy, the slightest tautness of neck muscles. I had no control over these people, you understand, I wasn’t a bodysnatcher, I couldn’t make them obey my will in any sense; nor did they pick up on my thoughts and emotions—it was strictly a oneway street.

Now comes the part that I’m truly embarrassed over and it’s about the self-testing I mentioned a moment ago; but, if this is to be an honest account, it has to be told. You see, after the Circle Line disappointment, I was keen to discover the limits my condition had imposed on me. I mean what would any red-blooded male do if he suddenly had the power of invisibility? I still had the memory of desire, I still appreciated beauty, especially when it was to do with the female form, and I still had low inclinations—or I suppose you might be kind and call them human failings.

I followed a beautiful young blonde girl home. And I watched her undress, then take a bath. She was not a natural blonde, I discovered, but even without make-up and stylish clothes, she was gorgeous. I appreciated her great looks well enough, but I was not aroused: it was only the admiration of a dispassionate observer. I suppose I viewed her in the way an octogenarian gentleman might: evaluation without lust. It was how I learned another aspect of my condition, which is why, shaming though the voyeurism was, it had to be mentioned here. A less disheartening example is that although the sight of good food remained pleasant to me, it no longer whetted my appetite, because I didn’t feel hungry anymore. And while I trudged the streets and parks, gliding when I wanted to, taking long hops when it pleased me, I suffered no aches or pains or tiredness; rather, my soul became weary and I soon came to understand that this was because of the mental anguish with which I’d been burdened and not the miles I’d travelled. So although I took pleasure from the blonde’s nakedness, I was not exhilarated by it, was not turned on in the least. The curves and dips of her flesh were delightful, the sheer graceful length of her thighs delectable, yet in me it led to nothing more than appreciation. So it seems the Pope may have been right when he pronounced several years ago that there is no sex in Heaven.

I had quite a few periods of vacuity, by the way, occasions when I found myself not where I expected to be. If I’d been my mortal self, I would have assumed these were times when I just blanked out, or fell asleep, but if now I never became physically weary, why should that occur? Everybody dreams, we’re told, even if we remember nothing upon waking, but we do not dream throughout our slumber. Dreams take up only a small percentage of our unconscious state with longer periods of utter closure in between. Where does our mind go? Our bodies certainly don’t shut down entirely—how could our lungs breathe, our hearts beat? But we appear to sink into oblivion and I could only wonder if that was still happening to me even without a functioning body. The mystery intrigued me; but again, there were no answers.

It was mainly because of these blackouts that I began to lose more track of time—as well as any interest in time itself—but I believe several days went by. I walked alone with no purpose, only the occasional cat or dog having some sense of my presence, humans completely unaware of my existence.

But one day an idea occurred to me.

25

Possibly it was because I had that feeling of slowly withdrawing from the world I’d known, observing it more and more objectively rather than subjectively, almost witnessing events, situations, distractedly, very gradually becoming detached from the reality of living, that I became anxious about making some kind of contact with Primrose. I just wanted to reassure her, to let her understand how much I loved and missed her, that there was no pain in this dimension, only emotional suffering (I think it was my unbearable anger that fed the suffering; and maybe, I wandered, it was also the reason I was still tied to this earth). Perhaps most important of all was that I had to say goodbye to her, unlike my own father, who had left without even telling me he was going when I was but a child myself.

What occurred to me is this: if certain animals could sense my presence, then why not spiritualists, mediums, clairvoyants, psychics, whatever they preferred to label themselves? They claimed to be the few people who were able to contact the dead and relate their words and messages to the living. It was worth a try.

But how to find one?

I couldn’t exactly thumb through Yellow Pages. So I just kind of wandered around a while, searching.

Don’t ask me how it worked, because I don’t know. In desperation, I just thought of what I was looking for and within a short time I found myself outside a small terraced house in an unfamiliar part of town. (Strangely, it was night-time; I’d lost most of the day somewhere, another one of my “blackout” periods I assumed.*) My location could have been Camden. Could have been Peckham—it was of no importance. I just arrived at the place (or was drawn to it) and somehow knew the person I sought was inside. On reflection, I think either I tuned into the medium, or she tuned into me. I floated through the brick wall to find myself in a largish, dimly lit parlour, where seven people—five women, two men—were seated around a circular table covered by a burgundy-coloured velvet (or something similar) cloth, all their hands splayed on the tabletop, the tips of their fingers connecting them all to one another. It was apparent that the séance had already begun.

*Time itself seemed not to be having any proper continuum for me. One moment it might be broad daylight, next the deepest—and even lonelier for me—night, my mysterious “blank-outs” filling the hours between. I had the idea of seeking out a medium in the morning, but when I arrived seemingly uncoerced at the house where the séance had begun, guided by nothing more than a self-wish or the medium’s dragnet for lost souls, the sun had given over to a half-moon in a cloudy sky.

The curtains, I noticed, were drawn tight and only a low lamp illuminated the room. I quickly surveyed the faces there, looking for the medium, and settled on a plump woman with a heavy, heaving bosom and closed eyes, dressed entirely in black and wearing big dangly earrings, but it was another person on the opposite side of the table who spoke up. She was a grey-haired sparrow of a thing, far different from the archetypal notion of a clairvoyant, the friendly, favourite aunt, Doris Stokes kind. Her face was skinny, gaunt even, with high jutting cheekbones and deeply sunken cheeks, her neck as scrawny as a plucked chicken’s. The wrists that projected from the tight-fitting sleeves of a faded paisley dress were spindly, wrist bones prominent, and her fingers trembled slightly on the deep-red tablecloth. Dark-blue veins were clearly embossed beneath the limpid skin of her wrists and hands. She wore no makeup and her eyebrows, below an unfurrowed forehead and above a large narrow nose, were too heavy for such an otherwise fragile face. Her age in this dim light was undeterminable, anywhere between fifty and seventy, probably towards the latter end if I had to guess, and her voice was as thin as her features, high-pitched and reedy. Her heavy-lidded eyes were closed, her face pointed slightly upward as though the person she addressed was in the corner of the ceiling.

“Andrew? Can you hear me, Andrew? I can feel you’re near. Catherine is waiting for a message, Andrew. Do you have a message for her?”

The plump woman who, mistakenly, had been my prime candidate for medium, was now watching the speaker across the table intently, unlike the others, a motley band of varying ages and attire, who either stared at their own hands or kept their eyes closed and heads bowed.

The frail clairvoyant spoke again. “Andrew, we’re here for you and wish you nothing but peace and love. Do you want to speak through me?”

Only silence followed and one or two of the sitters shifted in their chairs, either out of embarrassment or discomfort.

Suddenly, the medium’s eyes opened—they were blue, almost faded to grey—and for a moment I thought she was looking directly at me. But before I could speak, she invoked the name again.

“Andrew?”

Now I looked over my shoulder, thinking Andrew’s spirit might be standing behind me. There was nothing there. But I thought something might have moved somewhere in the shadows.

“It is you, Andrew, I can hear you telling me your name,” came the trembling voice of the thin woman.

At the table, other eyes opened and heads turned in my direction. I returned my gaze to the shadows behind me again.

There was definite movement, something looming larger, a shadow disassociating itself from other shadows. Although impossible, I swear I felt the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. Like a slowly developing photoprint, a face began to appear, followed by the shoulders.

It was hard to focus on it at first, because the shape was nebulous, the features hazy. But with more encouragement from the medium, it began to resolve itself. Soon I was able to tell that the face belonged to an elderly man, his hair white, but his skin relatively unlined, as if the troubles of this world had not followed him into the next.

“So many,” I heard the medium say. “There are so many present today, all with messages for their loved ones.”

Sighs, gasps, even some moans came from the group around the table. I could feel a tension and it felt like a precursor to hysteria. I was pretty near the edge myself.

I half-thought that when the medium had remarked that there were so many present today she was referring to the sitters, but when I looked past the emerging apparition, I noticed that there were others taking form behind it. The leader was the clearest, even if on occasions the image wavered and threatened to disappear, along with his more timid companions, who continued to linger behind him.

“So many,” the medium said again, with something like gratitude in her shaky voice. I turned to her once more and she was smiling, mouth open, thin lips pulled back to reveal yellow teeth. The smile failed to warm her expression; in fact, the smile was almost a rictus. “Come forward,” she intoned, “we’re waiting for your communication.”

By now, I’d backed away a little, not wanting to get between the medium and her ethereal guests. But these looming ghosts had frozen in their manifestation. I saw faces, pale, wide-eyed faces, faces that most definitely were from a realm other than this, because there was nothing solid about them, nothing of substance, only vaporous incarnations. Bizarrely, they looked frightened of me.

They reversed their development, began to be absorbed by the shadows, consumed by them, their gaze never leaving me. I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t think what. Call them back? Tell them I was one of them? In that instant, I knew the truth of it: I wasn’t one of them, not a ghost, not as I should be. Nevertheless, I held out a beseeching hand; wherever they were going, I wanted to go with them. But disbelief was evident on their waning faces, joining the fear already there, making me feel an abomination.

My God. It suddenly struck me that I was haunting ghosts.

“Please don’t leave us.” It was the desperate reedy voice of the medium. “Your loved ones are waiting to hear from you. Andrew, tell me what’s wrong so that I can reassure you. We are all as one in this room and wish you no harm.”

Distracted, I turned to her, and when I looked back at the apparitions, they were all but gone, just dispersing mists. Except for one.

I wasn’t sure if it had stood its ground, or if it was a new spirit, freshly arrived at the séance and had not yet become aware of my presence. But that couldn’t be, because he was looking directly at me.

There was something familiar about him and I suddenly realized why: he was the spook I’d noticed on the small rise at my funeral. He had been familiar then, but still I could not remember how I knew him. If alive, he would have been just past middle age, somewhere in his middle or late forties, because there was knowledge in his eyes, and experience in his features. His hair was full but almost colourless, and he wore a suit, a little crumpled, but not shabby; he also had on a white shirt with a dark tie (his suit and tie were too vague to suggest any other colour than grey). I knew this man. I knew this man.

A warmth denied to me since my demise emanated from him. I lost my own trepidation, if not my astonishment, as I watched the spectre become clearer, grey flushing to weak colours, the image itself more clearly rendered. I saw that his tie was red, his suit brown.

He smiled—at me—and the warmth engulfed me. His mouth opened to speak.

But the voice came from behind me.

“Jimmy.”

It wasn’t his voice, for it was female, high-pitched and querulous. I looked back at the medium once again as she spoke my name three times.

“Jimmy… Jimmy… Jimmy…”

I hadn’t been called that since I was a child.

“You must listen to me.”

Too surprised to know where to look now, my eyes went from sitters to ghost, ghost to sitters. The medium’s mouth moved again and I noticed her lips were wet with spit.

“You must go back, Jimmy,” she said and only then did it dawn on me that the apparition was talking to me through the bird-like woman, whose hands remained flat on the velvet cloth, her end-fingers still in contact with other hands around the table. It was her voice, yet it wasn’t quite the same as before when she had called to the spirit named Andrew. For some reason breath vapour was emerging from her mouth with the words, as if the temperature in the room had suddenly sunk dramatically, something I couldn’t actually feel myself.

The other sitters were looking at each other with perplexed expressions.

“Who’s Jimmy?” I heard one of them ask. There was a general shaking of heads, a few negative murmurs.

“I’m Jim—he means me,” I said, perhaps hoping that the medium, with her sensing powers, might hear me.

It was plain that she didn’t, for her head rolled round her shoulders, the pupils of her pale-blue eyes disappeared up into her head; she froze, her back arched, her scrawny neck stretched to its limit. For a moment, I thought she might topple, but her hands remained firmly on the tabletop.

“She can’t hear you, Jimmy.” The words came from the same source, the medium herself, but I knew they were from the ghostly man behind me. Turning directly to him, I saw his eyes were still on me, the woman a mere conductor for his message. Shapes cowered at his back, the other ghosts wavering in image and, apparently, wavering with fear also; I could feel it emanating from them. I should have been the one to be afraid and I couldn’t help but shake my head at the anomaly, even though I wasn’t quite without fear myself.

“What… who are you?” I asked, hardly expecting a reply—I’d become too used to being ignored nowadays.

There was a tenderness in his smile. I saw that his eyes were blue, his hair brown but greying. I knew this man.

“That doesn’t matter for now,” I heard the medium say over my shoulder, but the man’s lips forming the words. “You must go back, Jimmy. You must go back and stop him. Many others will die if you don’t.”

“Stop who? D’you mean Oliver, the friend who murdered me?”

A look of dismay swept over his ghostly features. “No. The one who lives in shadows, the one whose soul is black. You’ve already met this person, Jimmy, you must put an end to these murders. Find the person who has no face again.”

Somehow I knew instantly who he meant even before the medium spoke.

“The one with the scissors,” she said, while the apparition formed the words.

The man who clipped news stories from the papers. The man who lived in the gloomy basement flat. The man with the horribly disfigured face. Rather, the man without a face.

“No.” It was a one-word refusal from me. No way did I want to visit that grotesque again. Leave him undisturbed. Leave him to his own obsessions. Even though I was beyond harm these days, the thought of returning to that dark pit repulsed me.

“You must bring this evil to an end, Jimmy. The murder and defilement must stop.”

I was confused. Mutilation. The killer who I first blamed for my death. The man with the scissors.

“But there’s nothing I can do,” I cried out loud. “I’m… I’m a ghost, like you.”

“No. You’re not yet that. In time, Jimmy, in…” The medium’s voice was growing softer, the vision before me, and the cowering shapes behind it, beginning to fade.

“Your time will come, but first…”

The sound fading as the ghostly figure dematerialized before my eyes.

“The power…” his words were waning, dying, then reviving as if a volume control was being manipulated “… others here… afraid of you… the link… ting weak… visit you… one… time… this is over. Take heart… must be strong… your family… danger…”

The image—and the voice—was gone, dissolved in front of me. I heard a muted thump and someone shrieked. Wheeling round, I saw that the medium had fallen forward, her head hitting the table. One of the sitters, the plump woman I think, had cried out at the drama.

I stared into the shadowy corner, but there was nothing to see anymore, no fading remnants, no indication whatsoever that the ghosts had truly been there. A memory came to me then, suddenly, without prethought. I had seen the ghost who had spoken to me before, but it was many years ago and almost buried by time. I remembered when I had crashed my motorbike at the age of seventeen. I had left my body as a result of the trauma and had observed misty figures watching my unconscious body in the gutter. And I thought of one in particular, one who had tried to speak to me, but either his power or my receptiveness was not strong enough for his words to be clear. He had seemed familiar to me then and I couldn’t understand why at the time. I did now, though.

That man had been the same one who had appeared to me moments before in this clairvoyant’s parlour, the ghost who had spoken to me. I understood beyond any doubt now that this was my father.

26

So that’s why I returned to the horrible dingy basement flat somewhere in west London. It was easy to do, even if I hadn’t wanted to go: I just envisaged it in my mind, and then I was flying, the streets below me almost a blur. Within a few seconds, I was there, in the dimly lit room that had shadows darker than the séance parlour I’d just left. The hideously disfigured man was at home.

I find it difficult to express the consternation and nausea I felt the moment I saw him hunched over his central table, because I was to see a lot worse subsequently, stuff that would revolt me even more. The bent man was feeding. But he was feeding through a straw, sucking up some pulverized mixture into the hole that should have been his face, the slurping-gurgling noise he made as sickening as the sight.

The clear plastic container from a blending machine stood close by on the table—a table whose top was still littered with old newspaper cuttings and a pair of long-bladed scissors, by the way—with only a few dregs of some sludgy liquid remaining. The rest of the murky brown porridge was in the bowl from which the hunched figure drank.

In his black shabby clothes, shoulders rounded and head bent low, he resembled a giant fly sucking through its proboscis, the shit-brown of the liquid compounding the illusion. Even though I was of no substance, I wanted to vomit. Nevertheless, I stayed with him. I could imagine the flat’s foul stench just by looking around at its shoddy state, the black fungi on certain parts of the walls and ceiling, the threadbare carpet, and the open cans of food left in the small kitchen’s sink next door, and for the first time I appreciated having no sense of smell. It was a queer situation to be in, and I mean that by location as well as intention: I had a world outside to explore (if I could work up the “interest”), so why contain myself to this nasty hovel when I could float through the wall and visit far more wholesome and entertaining places? But I remained there, not sure why I was obeying a ghost’s plea. A ghost who had mentioned my family… and danger…

The man with the scissors, the ghost of my father had said. Bring this evil to an end.

Was this hunched person the serial killer, then? Was he the one who had murdered and mutilated all those poor people? The killer Oliver had foolishly tried to emulate? And if not, why then had I been drawn to him in the first place, before the séance, before my father had had the chance to talk to me? This person’s interest in the murders, shown by the press clippings still in disarray on the table, indicated more than just morbid curiosity. It was crazy. I was—used to be—an ordinary man, with precious little regard for otherworldly matters, even though I had the ability to leave my own body at times, so what was I to believe now? I wanted to get out of there, away from this unfortunate but disgusting creature, my conscience chastizing me for such uncharitable thoughts, while my eyes implored me to flee. Besides, I had more interest in seeing Oliver brought to justice rather than this ogre. Selfish, I know, but I couldn’t get over my partner’s betrayal, first with my wife, then the ultimate treachery of murdering me.

I forced myself to linger. Even when this grotesque interrupted his feeding and his body, suddenly tense, looked around at me, I did not retreat. What harm could he do to me? I was already dead. It was freaky though, those coal-black eyes staring at me as if he knew I was there. I metaphorically held my breath and his gaze roamed further, searching the corners of his foul habitat. After a while, he returned to his noisy guzzling and I sighed with relief. But why was it that on both of the other occasions I’d come here he had seemed to sense my presence? What psychic powers did he have? Nobody else had been aware of me since my death, not even my close family—not even my mother—so why this man? Just more questions to the overall mystery of my predicament.*

*The fact that even the medium had been unable to see me created a new puzzle. She had been aware of the ghosts’ presence, had spoken to the one I believed to be my dead father, and he had spoken to me through her. Did that mean I wasn’t a proper ghost; even though there was no doubt that my body was dead? Hell, it had even been cremated! If I wasn’t a spirit, then what was I? Neither alive, nor a ghost; at least, apparently not in the true sense of the word. I feared I might be going mad.

I would wait, I decided. I would stay here for as long as I could stand it and see what evolved, loathsome though the ordeal might be. What the hell—I had nothing else to do. So I stayed with him through the night, watched him shamble around his tiny, three-roomed flat, saw him mull over his mass of newspaper clippings. He seemed vexed when he picked up the cutting concerning my own terrible demise, and then became angry, striking the tabletop with the heel of his fist several times. I could only assume that he was furious because someone appeared to have stolen his thunder and, having enjoyed the pleasure (the disfigured man must have got some kind of perverted kick out of slaying and mutilation, so would have assumed the copycat killer had experienced the same), this person had put the blame on him. He read the article over and over again and, to my horror, he underlined my home’s vague address with a stubby pencil. I felt a panic when I reasoned why he should do so. After a while, he sat up straight and pushed the clipping aside. He stared at the blemished wallpaper on the wall opposite, but his eyes seemed blank, as though he were not studying its faded patterns, but rather thinking inwardly, his eyes dulled as though they were matt-finished, the large cavity in his face oozing spittle and a yellowish pus-like substance that ran down his half-formed chin. I would have liked to have looked away from him, but somehow his deformity held me mesmerized. God, what had this man gone through in life? Had he been born with this deep wound where his nose and mouth should have been, or had some tragic accident occurred to render him so? What kind of world did he live in? What mental torment he must have been through. Did he have an occupation, or did his deformity force him to hide away permanently, venturing out only with his hat and scarf concealing his lack of normal features? And was it the ugliness in his face that had caused the ugliness in his soul? I almost felt sorry for him, but quickly remembered he was a killer who had chopped up the bodies of his victims.

Perhaps it was odd that never for a moment did I doubt that he was the serial killer the police were looking for, but everything about him—his interest in the newspaper clippings concerning the murders, the dark aura that surrounded him, even the black brooding atmosphere of the flat itself—indicated to me that there was something very wrong with this man and it had nothing to do with his deformity. And when he shuffled over to a corner cupboard and took out something wrapped in rough cloth my curiosity was roused further. Something, or things, clicked together as he laid the bundle on the table and unravelled it. Several long—about one-foot long—grey knitting needles lay exposed and I saw that their coated steel points had been honed into something lethal.

I stayed in that frightening and depressing place for the rest of the night, watching the disfigured man, listening to his guttural breathing, seeing him sort through his pile of newspaper clippings, avoiding contact with him as he paced the room in his dark raincoat. Occasionally, he would return to the table and pick up the accounts of my murder as if they had some special significance to him (and I realized it had, for, if the police were right, this was one of the murders he did not commit). His breathing became heavier and more coarse each time he scanned the cut-out pages, and he would throw them back onto the table, his anger barely contained, only to pace the floor again for ten minutes or so, then pick the clippings up once more. It was a pattern that went on for some time and it confirmed in my mind that he really was deranged. I could only keep to one shadowy corner, ready to move each time he approached, afraid of him even though I knew I could not be harmed anymore, freezing each time he seemed to look directly at me, as if he sensed I was there. At these moments, he himself, would become very still, and his protrusive eyes would beam their curiosity and malice. I felt as though I were looking into the eyes of evil incarnate and I never held their gaze for long, always averting my face and cowering, ready to make a break for it should he advance any further.

He never did though. Instead, his shoulders would slump and he’d continue his pacing or return to the table with its wild spread of newspaper articles and dirty bowl and blender jug, which he had not yet bothered to clear away. I’ve no idea how long it was before he decided to turn in for the night, because I seemed to be losing track of time in some small way, but eventually he turned out the feeble light in the main room and went through to his bedroom. I had no wish to be present when he undressed—what other horrors might his naked round-shouldered body reveal—so I remained in my corner, which was now pitch black, the only light coming from the open doorway. After some thumps—probably shoes being dropped—and some groans—were other, hidden disfigurements causing him pain?—I heard him urinating (presumably a toilet or bathroom adjoined the bedroom), then a flush. Padded footsteps as he returned to the bed, then the creak of old springs.

I listened as he grumbled to himself, once in a while his voice rising to an angry unformed roar, and eventually there came the unlovely sound of his snoring, a rasping squeezed exhalation followed by a rough droning intake of breath. I explored the rest of the flat in the darkness (the bedroom light had been turned off just before he’d climbed into bed and the only illumination came down from a street light on the pavement above the basement steps), but found nothing of importance, nothing that might reveal this man’s identity. Dishes and plates were stacked up unwashed in the sink, the plastic bin beneath it overloaded with rubbish, some of which—a milk carton, half an egg shell, an empty tin of beans—had spilled onto the floor. Going back to the main room I forced myself to sit on the lumpy, magazine-strewn couch, its outline only just discernible in the weak light from the basement window. Again, I was grateful that I no longer had a sense of smell.

I suppose I fell into a deep sleep, because the next thing I knew there was grey twilight showing through the grimy glass of the window and my host was shuffling about the room. It looked as though he was preparing to leave. With dismay I realized I must have slept or blacked out for a whole night and most of the next day.

27

I followed him up the stone steps to street level. He wore the same dark raincoat and scarf muffler as yesterday, only those bulging eyes barely visible in the shadow of the hat’s brim. It was a drizzly and apparently cold autumn morning, for other pedestrians wore raincoats or topcoats, one or two carrying open umbrellas. I had no idea what time it was, but it felt like late afternoon. God, had I been asleep (or just oblivious) while he dressed and took meals, unaware of me as I’d been unaware of him?

His shoulders hunched even more than usual, as if shrinking into himself so as not to be noticed, he made his way along a line of vehicles parked in resident-only bays, and I followed two feet behind him, the light rain passing right through me. He stopped by an ancient Hillman Minx, a grey tank of a car that must have been manufactured in the last century’s fifties. The wheel arches were rusted, the door panels pitted and scored, the windows as grimy as those in the flat we’d just left, smeared arcs caused by wipers relieving the windscreen of some of the dirt. I noticed there was a parking permit stuck to the inside of the windscreen, but when I peered closer it gave no owner’s name, only the vehicle registration.

The man unlocked the car door and climbed in, so I passed through the rear passenger door and settled into the wide seat. Like his home, the interior was untidy, bits of paper and debris—a lidless can of frost spray, a battered A to Z, an empty milk carton, used straws—littering the floor both front and back. The leather upholstery was split in places and a soiled rag lay on the passenger seat beside the driver. The man ducked low, pushing something underneath his seat, tucking it away out of sight; I hadn’t registered the fact that he had been carrying something under his arm as he’d made his way to the car, and it was this that he was concealing. Something inside the cloth-wrapped bundle clicked, a recognizable sound. He’d brought the knitting needles with him.

Before I could wonder why, he pushed the key into the ignition and switched on the engine. It moaned its reluctance to start and he made another two attempts before the engine finally turned over and settled to an uneasy murmur. Immediately he pushed the gear lever—so ancient was the Hillman that it was a column shift on the steering wheel—into first, then pulled away from the kerb; it was only when we left the sidestreet and turned into the main road that I realized I’d got my timing wrong, for the pavements were busy with people, all the shops and offices lit up, the road itself crowded with traffic. It was early evening and not the afternoon. How had I been asleep so long? Why hadn’t his movement in the flat aroused me earlier? Then again had I really slept that long, or was this merely another slippage in time? There was no way of knowing; I wasn’t yet familiar enough with my condition to be able to tell. All I knew was that at certain times I fell asleep, or simply blacked out, so that my spirit, soul, consciousness, whatever I was, rested, or renewed itself, I did, in fact, feel a little fresher each time I “awoke” so I could only assume that even my state required its rest and replenishment. It seemed mundane, but I supposed that incorporeal existence paralleled normal life to some extent, the mind continuing to follow a familiar pattern. Maybe in the unknown you instinctively comforted yourself with the known, or perhaps a lifetime’s habit was hard to break even in death.

As he drove on, it took only a few minutes for me to realize we were in the Shepherd’s Bush area and I watched people going about their business, unaware that some strange kind of ghost was travelling through their midst. How I envied their humdrum lives, how I wished I was part of the system again, a living, breathing person with all the problems, heartaches and joy that went with the human condition. The world I now lived in was no fun at all and I began to wonder if I was in purgatory, the stage between life and death that some religions—especially my own—told us we had to pass through before reaching our paradise (or heaven, as we called it). And if that were the case, part of my redemption might lie in preventing this monster from murdering more innocents. What the hell, I had nothing else to do with my time, and I could no longer be harmed myself, so why not go along with it? It certainly seemed important to the spirit I now believed to be my father. How I could stop the sick lunatic I had no idea, but hoped that something would present itself along the way.

My thoughts returned to the driver of this clapped-out vehicle and I studied the back of his head from the rear seat. His low snuffles were occasionally interrupted by deliberate snorts, his reaction to other drivers who irritated him with their careless manoeuvring. Again, the sickness of his aura disturbed me as much as the man himself, the muddy radiation sending off dispiriting vibes that I felt must surely unsettle the living people he came in contact with. It’s odd that some individuals can take an instant dislike to certain other people they’ve just met, which can only be put down to the chemistry between them. I now believe that dislike or aversion had more to do with the sensing of aura than any chemical reaction (maybe it amounted to the same thing, who could tell? Certainly not me); probably, the opposite was also true, attraction being just as easily influenced by a compelling aura. Maybe this was the answer to the mystery of “love at first sight”.*

*Again, I remembered—I was too distraught to register anything as subtle as auras at the time—how Prim’s muted radiance (although it still contained vibrant flashes within its down-toned glow) had intermingled with Andrea’s, who tried to console her, their light becoming part of a whole. It had also been visible when Primrose had sat on her granddad’s lap on the day of my funeral. Unfortunately, I recalled witnessing a different kind of interaction when Andrea and Oliver had kissed so passionately in my home later that same day: through their dulled colours, small vibrant charges had flashed from each of them.

I think we must have been driving for ten minutes or so (not being sure of time anymore, I found this hard to judge) when the car pulled into the forecourt of a huge grey stretch of a building, and I just glimpsed the word “HOSPITAL” on a big noticeboard as we passed by. Which London hospital it was I had no idea, but there were two wings on either side of the main block and its façade was grubby with city pollution. My unwitting chauffeur drove around to the back of the grey edifice and eased the Hillman into a crowded staff car park. Climbing out, he took time to check on the wrapped package on the floor, pushing it back further out of sight with the guttural kind of grunt I was getting used to from him. I followed as he slammed the door shut, locked it, and shambled away. He had a peculiar shuffling gait, one hunched shoulder higher than the other, and I wondered what other things were wrong with his body. Certainly his stride was impeded in some way, although his physique looked strong, powerful, those shoulders broad if stooped and tilted, his hands and wrists large, his booted feet also big, suggesting thick legs. His face was almost completely hidden by the woollen scarf and hat, his bulging black eyes peering out from between. Although the covered cavity where there should have been a nose and mouth was gristled and raw, seepage constantly leaking so that the night before he had been forced to hold a large soiled cloth to it constantly, I had the feeling that this was no new injury, if injury it was. He appeared to be too competent with his method of eating for the orifice to have been recently created, placing the straw perfectly into whatever receptacle lay beyond the rough edges, with no hint of pain or discomfort, sucking up the blended food with practised ease. Several people, uniformed nurses, gave him odd glances as he passed by, but none spoke to him. I kept to his heels, wondering if he was seeking treatment at the hospital, or if he was employed there, perhaps as a porter or boilerman, any kind of job that did not involve the public. Cruel as the thought was, I felt pretty certain that his work would not bring him into much contact with the public.

He approached a double door marked “MORTUARY—RESTRICTED AREA”, and pushed one side of it open, passing through and entering a long, wide and dismal corridor, the walls painted a turgid olive green, the lights in its ceiling behind wire guards for some reason, as if the corpses wheeled along this way might rise up and try to break them. I still kept close to him, walking not gliding behind him, as though I remained part of the real world. A man wearing green overalls approached from the opposite direction, a surgeon’s mask, also green, hanging around his neck. He nodded at the man I followed as he went by and was greeted with a muffled grunt that could have meant anything.

Soon we arrived at plastic doors, the kind that overlapped and were easy to push trolleys and gurneys through, and I saw that we were in a long room, floor-to-ceiling white wall tiles and overhead strip lighting giving an air of clinical cleanliness. To one side there was a whole wall filled with refrigerated steel cabinets, the door to each one approximately three feet by two. There must have been at least forty of them. Three stainless-steel tables, carts filled with surgical tools standing next to each one, occupied the concrete floor; only one had a naked body stretched out on its surface. Another man, also wearing gown and mask, as well as latex gloves, was working on the pale carcass.

“Ah, good,” the masked man said, looking up. “You’ve got the evening shift tonight, have you, Moker?”

A familiar grunt from my man.

“Well, there’s not much going on, unless anything fresh is brought in.” The man standing by the dead body pulled his surgical mask free from his face. “This one’s all done, so just clean him up before you put him away for the night. I understand the relatives are coming in in the morning for a last look and positive ID, so make sure you do a good job.”

There was no friendliness in the mortician’s tone as he spoke to the man he’d called… what was it? Moter? No, Moker. I’m sure he said Moker. In fact, he eyed the muffled man with disdain, and I was sure it wasn’t because of the way Moker looked, not in these politically correct times. Moker didn’t seem to be too popular, and I could well understand that. With or without his deformity, there was just something plain unpleasant about the guy.

The mortician began peeling off his latex gloves, studying the corpse before him as he did so, lost in thought for the moment. As he dropped the gloves into a pedal bin, he noticed Moker had not yet moved. He glared at him through wire-framed spectacles.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said gruffly. “Get yourself changed and don’t forget to wear gloves tonight. I’ve told you enough times that all kinds of diseases can be picked up from cadavers. Now get on with it.”

Moker shuffled away, going through a door that I hadn’t noticed on one side of the long sparse room. I went with him out of curiosity. This was a locker room, tall cabinets set along the wall, where a youngish guy, who looked as if he enjoyed too many Big Macs, was just closing the door of one of them. Moker went to a locker, produced a key from his raincoat pocket, and opened it; but not before I’d had the chance to read the small name card on the door. “A. MOKER” it read in badly written capital letters. So, the name was confirmed, not that it would help me in any way. Why had I even bothered to follow him? I asked myself. What was I supposed to do? Not only could I not physically touch him, I could not even haunt him. He might seem aware of my presence at times, but there had been no indication that he’d actually seen me.

The mortician who had given Moker his instructions came in behind us holding a rumpled apron in front of him by the fingers of one hand as if it carried the plague.

“Whose is this?” he barked at both men in the locker room.

The tubby guy was shrugging on a jacket and his hand appeared from a sleeve to point at Moker.

“Alec’s,” he said, without a trace of betrayal.

The mortician gave Moker a withering look and pushed the offending garment towards him.

“I’ve told you before,” the mortician reprimanded as Moker took the grubby apron, “don’t leave soiled aprons lying in the cabinet room. This looks as if it should have been laundered weeks ago.”

He wheeled away without another word and Tubby Guy followed him from the room, leaving Moker alone.

I watched as he threw the apron in the bottom of the locker and took out green overalls, a long linen coat of the type worn by the mortician himself. He laid it over the back of a hard chair then unwound the choker from his neck. I flinched again at the sight of his poor ravaged face, but he quickly reached inside the locker again and took out a surgical mask, this one white, which he pulled over most of his face, hiding the hole beneath. Even so, with no shape of a nose and mouth, the cloth mask looked odd. It puffed out as he breathed, shrinking concavely as he took a breath.

Donning the overalls, he put his own coat, scarf and hat inside the locker and closed the door. Picking up a dry sponge and cloth he returned to the main room which, apart from the body on the metal table, was now empty. Moker approached the corpse, considered it for a minute or two, examining the plain stitching on its chest and groin where the mortician had removed organs for inspection. I noticed there were labelled jars on a shelf nearby, each one containing interior body parts. A brown clipboard filled with handwritten details hung from the side of the stainless-steel table. The corpse itself had a label with more details attached to the big toe of the right foot. I heard a muted cough and glanced over to a doorway leading to a small and, from what I could see, cramped office where the person who had greeted Moker sat bent over a desk. He still wore his green overalls and was busy with more paperwork, no doubt filling out forms appertaining to the deceased. At the sound, Moker busied himself swabbing down the body and I drifted away. The dead man was pallid beyond belief, with blue stains around his eyes and lips, similar stains blemishing his skin in other places. It was an awful sight, particularly with the stitched Y-shaped wound running down his chest and stomach, and I had no morbid interest in watching Moker at work. I drifted around, peering into glass cabinets containing all kinds of liquids, powders and creams, even body deodorants, wound fillers and body plugs. There was an embalming machine nearby with dials and tubes attached, its large glass container filled with pinkish fluid mounted on top. In the small office next door where the mortician continued his form filling, there was a desk crammed with upright files, a computer keyboard and screen, two lamps, a telephone, and various pieces of paperwork and folders. The mortician barely had room to write. Around the walls were more clipboards bearing various other forms, framed morticians’ licences, a calendar and some kind of printed schedule with days of the week and allotted work times inked in. I saw Moker’s name entered for all that week’s evening shifts.

The mortician finally laid down his pen with a grumble of relief and pushed back his chair, which was on castors. I stepped away as if the chair might knock into me (instinctive reactions were still hard to overcome), retreating into the mortuary itself, and the mortician followed me through. He didn’t bother to bid Moker goodnight as he made his way to the plastic doors, and Moker, who was busy swabbing down the corpse, didn’t look up from his work.

I still felt very uneasy in Moker’s presence, even though I could not be seen (although it chilled me whenever Moker seemed to sense that something was with him and he peered around the room, seeking out whatever it was that disturbed him), and I would have loved to have left that place. I couldn’t go though—the spirit’s words at the séance had had too much of an effect on me. Maybe I was on some path towards redemption, a path that would take me from this purgatory I was in. After all, I was a Catholic, even if a lapsed one, and I was supposed to believe in that kind of thing. Besides, incorporeality had to have some effect, didn’t it?

So I stuck with the situation, not having a clue as to the purpose of my vigil, but trusting that something important might come of it. The evening drew on and the later it got, the more the mortuary seemed isolated from the rest of the world. Footsteps, a cough from Moker, the dribble as he squeezed out the sponge—all sounded hollow, echoey, and louder than they should have been. I knew it was the acoustics created by the tiled walls and metal cabinets, but nevertheless, it was kind of ghostly. I suppose the hidden rows of dead bodies and the sight of the corpse that Moker worked on added to the creepiness, but I had to remind myself that I was the one doing the haunting. No one disturbed Moker in his work, nobody at all entered the mortuary that night; the telephone didn’t ring, there were no extraneous noises from beyond the four walls. The silence was relieved only by his grunts and occasional harsh breathing. It was both depressing and nerve-wracking.

At last he finished his labours and threw the sodden sponge and cloth into a plastic water bucket at the foot of the metal table. He gazed at his handiwork for a few moments, then traced with his thick fingers the stitched scar that ran from chest to groin. It was a sickening thing to do and I could only wonder at the man’s mentality and motive. Finally, he shuffled away, left shoulder higher than the right and went over to a tall freestanding cupboard, from which he took a large folded white sheet. This he spread over the body, covering it from head to ankles, allowing only the feet to show. After this, he wheeled over a gurney and effortlessly, it seemed to me, transferred the corpse onto it. He pushed it to the end of the row of closed cabinets, read the card on one, before pulling the cabinet all the way out. Naturally, it was empty and he came back to the body on the gurney and pushed it towards the exposed shelf of the cabinet. Again, effortlessly, it seemed, he lifted the corpse and laid it out on the shelf, tidily tucking the sheet around its outline so that he could close the cabinet once more. This he did, and when the shrouded body was out of sight, he tapped the cabinet front twice with the flat of his hand as if bidding the dead man goodnight.

This was cavalier at best, but what followed was far worse. My God, it was far, far worse; disgustingly so. First, he went to the plastic double door, pushing it open a fraction and peering out as if to see if the coast was clear. Then he came back to the closed cabinets and walked along them, tapping each door that was at chest level. He stopped, took another swift look at the plastic doors, then pulled open one cabinet. It slid out easily, only the low rumble of its runners breaking the silence, and I could see that the figure it held was smallish. Although the head was fully covered, I could tell by the dainty, colourless feet and the two slight chest bumps that a woman or girl lay beneath the shroud.

Moker pulled back the white sheet, slowly, as if relishing every stage of exposure, pausing as the breasts were uncovered. The surgical mask he wore puffed in and out with increased labour and I saw a dark saliva stain spread across it. The unveiling continued and I wanted to turn away from the obvious necrophilia. Instead, as if mesmerized again, I continued to stare in horror.

When, at last, the folds of sheet lay around the girl’s feet—I saw she could only be in her early twenties—Moker raised his thick, and now trembling hands and ran them over her chalky-white figure. Apart from her deathly whiteness and the blueness of her lips, she looked unharmed, as though whatever had ended her young life remained hidden within the vessel that was her body; her hair was golden blonde and it lay in matted ringlets around her head and neck.

I yelled a high-pitched protest when I saw what Moker was doing and tried to grab his arms, wanting to pull him away, wanting to prevent his desecrating this beautiful but lifeless girl. Nothing I could do would stop him though and, although I was aware of my inadequacy, I could not still my arms and I beat at him, tore at him, desperately tried to force him away. His big hand delved between her thighs, which were now spread in a revealing pose, and I screamed again and again.

Eventually, I gave up and went into the small office next door. I sank into the desk chair and lay my head in my hands, covering my ears.

I could still hear the brute noises coming from next door, the animal moans of Moker as he abused the body that had been left in his charge.

But shocked and repulsed though I was by the depravity, nothing could have prepared me for the horror that was to follow later that night.

28

It was a long wretched night and more than once I had to force myself to remain in the presence of this monster. I kept to the little office, desperately trying to close my mind to the activity next door. Other cabinets had been opened, but I refused to think of what might be happening to other cadavers. Perhaps having finished with the girl, Moker was merely carrying out his normal duties; I could only hope. Twice he came into view through the doorway, pushing a floor mop, a metal bucket by his feet, and I supposed that not only was it his job to clean the corpses, but also the mortuary itself. Once he came into the office and I had to back away into a tight corner to avoid his touch—I shuddered at the idea of sharing any of his sick thoughts—and I remained there as he shuffled through paperwork on the desk. I got the feeling that he was just snooping rather than working, because he added nothing to the various forms he browsed through, nor did he instigate new paperwork himself. He looked into the desk drawers and I had the impression he was still prying and not actually searching for something. And strangely, all the while he wore the surgical mask over the gaping hole in his face, as if visitors might drop in any moment and he did not want anyone to see the disfigurement. I had no idea how long he’d worked in this hospital mortuary, but I thought it pretty certain that other staff in the hospital knew of his deformity. In some strange way, perhaps he was hiding it from himself: I had noticed there were no mirrors in his grubby flat, but there were bound to be in other places he visited; in fact, there was a small one in this very room, stuck on a wall at about head level, obviously for morticians to groom themselves before they went about their business. Moker, deliberately it seemed to me, had refrained from glancing into the mirror all the while he was in the office.

It was a relief when he went outside again and carried on with whatever duties he was paid to do—cleaning and sweeping mostly, I’d have said, and not just tending bodies. I stayed where I was, sitting in the chair and closing my eyes, ready to jump up should he return. Occasionally I checked the time on the round clock fixed to the wall above the desk and only when the hands approached 10 p.m. and I heard Moker pouring water away into one of the mortuary’s stainless-steel sinks, and then the clatter of the bucket and mop as they were stored away, inside a cupboard, did I guess his shift was nearly up and he was getting ready to leave.

I went back into the long white-tiled morgue and trailed him to the locker room. He shed the green overalls and put the surgical mask into his raincoat pocket. Then he wound the long woollen scarf around his neck and face, and donned the coat and wide-brimmed hat. He was ready to leave and some inner instinct told me he was not immediately returning home.

I was right: he didn’t go back to his basement flat. Instead he drove to a twenty-four-hour underground car park in Bayswater.

We’d been sitting there quite some time, Moker slumped in the driver’s seat, me in the back, an impalpable passenger. I hated being so close to him—I was sure that if I had the sense of smell, his stench would have been unbearable—but there was no other option. I sensed he was up to no good (finely attuned instinct again?)—why else would he sit in the darkness of the car park’s lowest level, studying every person (and there weren’t that many at that time of night) who returned to collect their vehicle.

This basement area was almost as poorly lit as his flat (I was getting used to dark, dispiriting places by now: the séance parlour, Moker’s dingy home, Mother’s front room, and now this gloomy place, the car park itself), with no CCTV cameras, the parked cars few on this level. Footsteps, when they came, sounded lonely in this deep underground space. The old Hillman was parked between two smart cars, a Mondeo and a BMW, which only accentuated the battered wreck that it was. I thought Moker’s raspy breathing might carry beyond the confines of his vehicle, so quiet was this level he’d chosen, but it could be because of my own overwrought imagination. I heard a door shut and an engine start up, then the muffled sound of wheels travelling over concrete. The noise faded away. More footsteps, these belonging to more than one person.

Two people came into view, walking down the curving ramp in our direction, and Moker sank lower into his seat. It was a man and a woman, and they were arm in arm, gazing into each other’s eyes, seemingly oblivious to all else. They reached the BMW, failing to notice the dark hunched figure in the old car next to it, and the man fumbled in his pocket for his car key. Before he inserted it into the lock, the couple paused to engage in a passionate kiss, the man running his free hand down the length of the woman’s back. They clung together for a little while and I heard Moker’s breathing become heavier, more ragged.

The driver climbed into the BMW and the woman walked round to the passenger side; her lover stretched across and pushed the door open for her. As she passed my window I saw that she was attractive, probably mid-thirties, smart in long skirt and navy jacket. The man, I’d noticed, wore a slightly crumpled business suit and had carried a briefcase, which he’d dropped onto the BMW’s back seat. The pair looked like work colleagues who had just put in a stint of overtime. Once settled in the car, they practically hurled themselves at each other, mouths pressed tight, arms never still. Their kiss was passionate, their embrace ardent; they fumbled at each other and I began to feel embarrassed. Moker kept low in his seat, but constantly peeped over at the couple, obviously aroused, but wary of being spotted. Just when it seemed that the man and woman were about to lose all inhibition, an EXIT door about fifty yards or so away opened and three men stepped through. They were loud, laughing at each other’s remarks, one of them playfully punching another on the upper arm. The couple in the BMW froze for a moment, then sat up, the man fiddling with the key in the ignition as if getting ready to start up. When the three men lingered by two cars not far away, one of them looking across and spying the couple, the driver of the BMW did start the engine and switched on the headlights, muttering something inaudible as he did so. He drove off, probably to find some other secluded place for their after-work activities.

As the BMW sped by, the three men split up, two of them getting into a blue Peugeot estate, the remaining one walking to a parked Celica and climbing in. Moker straightened up as the Celica drove off, then bent forward to pick up something from under his seat, the small bundle he had stowed away earlier. As he held it in his lap and unwrapped the cloth, I heard the familiar clicking sounds and I leaned forward for a better view. Although the lighting in the underground car park was inadequate, I was able to see what he held up to the windscreen to scrutinize.

It was one of those wickedly sharpened coated-steel knitting needles.

I sank back in the seat, suddenly very afraid. Why was Moker loitering in this badly lit and isolated place? Why was he holding that modified wicked-looking domestic tool? It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Oh God! I wanted to get out. I didn’t want to be a witness to murder! Not when there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I—

The EXIT door opened again. Moker’s head snapped up. A figure, silhouetted by the light inside the stairwell, came through. Footsteps echoed around the concrete walls and pillars. The figure walked under the dull glow of a ceiling light and both Moker and I saw at the same time that it was a man. According to the newspaper reports, gender didn’t matter to the killer whose rampage had continued over barely six weeks. So if Moker was the serial killer—and by now I was sure he was—then a solitary man in this empty place would be an ideal victim. The ENTRANCE/EXIT part of this car park was three floors up, with thick concrete ceilings between.

Moker held the knitting needle upright in his hand like a knife while he waited for the man to draw nearer. I felt him tense, heard his breathing held in check; his other hand fingered the Hillman’s inside door handle. The man came closer, unaware he was being watched. He moved through an ocean of shadow until he passed beneath another overlight and I heard Moker give out a little moan of disappointment.

The man, who was squinting around through heavy-lensed glasses, was short, overweight and balding. Little did he realize that his plain looks were to save his life that night. I didn’t realize either until a little later. Moker slumped in his seat once more, leaning across the passenger seat so that he would not be seen from outside the car. The man, lucky to live a longer life, passed by about fifteen yards away and, with a “humph” of recognition, made his way towards a grey Saab several vehicles further along. I watched with relief as he started his car and drove out of the parking space, his headlights lighting up the interior of the Hillman for a couple of seconds. Moker kept out of sight until the Saab had passed and was heading up the curved ramp to the next level.

I’m not sure just how much longer we waited, but it must have been at least half an hour before the EXIT door opened again. This time a woman came out, her shape in silhouette, and I felt Moker’s rising excitement. She was alone and that made her very vulnerable. She was slim and had long flowing hair which made her a definite target, for I began to understand how the killer chose his target.

We could see more of the woman now and although she was not quite as glamorous as the first glance had suggested—her nose was a little large, her jaw a little weak—she carried herself well and the skirt and slim topcoat she wore accentuated the attractiveness of her figure. Her blouse plunged open a button too far and her ankles were trim in high-heel pumps. Now Moker’s excitement had him trembling.

His hand crept to the door handle once again as he watched the woman go to her car and we heard the “dweep” of her electronic door key. Moker pulled the handle slowly, deliberately, quietly, and eased the door open a fraction, checking that the woman, who was just opening her own door, had not heard the sound. She hadn’t; she opened her car door just as Moker pushed his wide.

“No!” I shouted as I lunged forward to grab him by the shoulders. It was useless, of course—my hands merely went through his body, raincoat and all. But he did hesitate. And I withdrew sharply, as though zapped by a thousand volts, for I had sensed him, caught sight of his nature, and the infringement was shocking. I felt as if my soul had lurched into something unbearably evil, an existence that was devoid of all compassion and wretched in its malice. It was only momentary—for both of us apparently, because Moker sat rigid, as if stunned—passing quickly and taking some of my energy with it. Moker turned and seemed to look directly at me as he had before now, but naturally seeing nothing. Even so, it was a relief when he turned away again and pushed the door, which had swung closed a little. He was about to step from the car when the EXIT door crashed open once more and two men virtually spilled out, laughing and giggling together at some joke that only the truly inebriated find funny.

Startled, Moker immediately pulled the car door shut again and watched the two drunks walk unsteadily along a row of parked vehicles. He gripped the Hillman’s steering wheel tightly with one hand and I heard him sounding off what must have been incoherent oaths. The woman, who had been about to climb into her car, glanced up and gave a disgusted shake of her head before getting in. I heard her car’s engine start and the head- and tail-lights came on. She reversed out and swept round, honking at the men, who had taken exaggerated steps to get out of her way, as she passed them by. One of them gave her the finger, which the other thought was hilarious. Her tail-lights disappeared up the ramp and the two drunks found the car they were blindly searching for. That neither one should be driving in their state didn’t seem to bother them. One climbed into the driver’s seat and the other went round to the passenger door and let himself in. The Jaguar reversed out perfectly and headed smoothly for the incline. It was quickly gone, the driver remembering to switch on his lights just as the Jag disappeared round the ramp’s curve.

Moker and I were left alone in the shadows once more.

We waited a long time.

There were still a few cars parked and some, I assumed, would remain there overnight, but no one came to collect any for quite a while and I thought my nerve—and my resolve—would break long before then. After all, I’d touched this man, I’d sensed him, I’d felt the harsh bleakness of his soul. I wondered if he had been born evil, or if his disfigurement—lifelong?—had made him that way. Bad as his disability might be, it was hard to justify his apparent hatred of normal human beings. And hate them, he did; I’d felt it when part of my body had merged with his. Could you be born evil? Or did you learn from environment and condition? I could hardly ask him the question.

How long was this psychopathic monster prepared to wait here for a suitable victim? Oh yes, I was doubly sure now that this was his intention—why else the sharpened knitting needles, why had he made a move towards the lone woman, if not waiting for suitable prey? But why not the first man who had come along? There had been no one else about, and previous victims had included both men and women. Also, the man had been overweight and soft-looking, hardly the type to put up a fierce struggle. It had seemed that Moker was about to go for him, but when he saw the man’s face he had relaxed back in his seat again. That was when it finally dawned on me. Was it that the first guy had been particularly unattractive? In fact, to be blunt he was downright ugly. Was the qualification for murder that the victim had to be handsome or beautiful or at least, presentable? So was that what Moker was looking for? The woman who had come along was certainly good-looking and Moker had prepared himself to go for her, only the two drunks arriving at an inopportune moment having saved her. According to the lurid reports in the tabloids, all victims so far had been either successful or fairly successful business types, smartly dressed and, from the photos of the deceased, attractive. That was why back in the hotel room Chief Superintendent Sadler had asked Oliver if I’d been handsome! Did Moker have a grudge against good-looking and smart people? Did he envy them? Did he want to eradicate them—and, of course, spoil their looks—because he could never be like them? I was soon to learn that killing these people was only part of it; Moker’s vengeful jealousy went far beyond that.

He was patient, this nasty psychopath. So very patient. Just when I thought he must surely give up his vigil, that the rest of the cars in the car park were here for the night, we both heard the clatter of what could only be a woman’s high-heeled shoes coming from the direction of the curving ramp. Amplified by the low concrete ceiling and walls, the sound grew louder by the moment. She came into view.

From a distance she looked tall and slim, slimmer even than the previous woman who had used the stairway and EXIT door to access this floor, and as she drew nearer we saw her hair was long and falling in bangs around her face. She entered a pool of light and I groaned inwardly when I saw her pleasant, although not stunning, features. I knew there was a good chance she would pass the Moker test of attractiveness.

In the front seat, Moker shifted, and I noticed that the knitting needle was held in his hand once more. As before, his free hand slowly reached for the door handle.

The woman passed by the front of the Hillman and failed to notice her stalker in the deeper shadows of the old car. She wore narrow, silver-framed designer spectacles which in no way detracted from her appeal—far from it: they seemed to render her even more vulnerable. Her lips were finely drawn, her nose strong but not obtrusive. Her breasts, beneath a thin cream blouse, spread apart the front of her unbuttoned check jacket, while in her left hand she carried a plastic Safeway’s bag and a briefcase (probably after working late, she’d done some late-night supermarket shopping). I noticed that she wore no wedding or engagement ring; perhaps she was a career woman with scant time for romance.

The situation was perfect for Moker: the dark, lonely location, the victim alone and unaware, her looks favourable, the shadows a welcome ally. Slowly he removed his hat. God, I prayed for somebody to come through the EXIT door, or down the ramp; I prayed for another vehicle to come down looking for a parking place. But I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Circumstances were too bloody ideal for murder.

The woman, whom I judged to be in her late twenties or early thirties, headed towards a dark-coloured Mazda sports car, which was isolated behind a pillar about twenty yards away. She gripped its key in her right hand, her arm extended as if singling out the car. I could tell she was nervous from where I watched, and what lone woman wouldn’t be in this still graveyard of a place, parked vehicles like metal mausoleums in the artificial dusk. While the woman cautiously looked about her as she walked, Moker silently waited before quietly slipping out of the Hillman. He unwound the scarf from his disfigured face.

The prey had almost reached her car when he followed on tiptoe, soft shoes (for the first time I noticed he wore grubby cheap-looking sneakers) soundless on the concrete floor. She leaned forward to insert the Mazda’s key in the lock and Moker hurried his steps, coming up behind her, pulling her round to face him, her eyes widening in horror, her mouth opening to scream, but his left hand reaching up to gag her, the hand holding the deadly thin weapon sweeping upwards to strike beneath her left ribcage.

It had all happened so fast that I was still in the car, frozen there because I knew what was about to happen, only released from the stupor when the long needle sank through the blouse into her flesh.

Yet even as I sat there stunned, a memory came back to me, something the police detectives had discussed at the crime scene in the hotel: the police surgeon had mentioned that two weapons had been used on me, one an axe or chopper, and something that made a hole through the heart. A needle—a long thin needle—was the weapon used. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but he was obviously talking about a common knitting needle, of which Moker had plenty. The news cuttings that Moker had collected indicated his fascination for the killings, but the collection of knitting needles in his possession had to confirm that beyond all doubt he was the guilty party.

Passing through the closed passenger door I sped towards the horrendous tableau, the woman held tight against her assailant’s body, his hand no longer clamped over her mouth as she shivered in his grasp, the vicious needle pushing in deeper and deeper, its point sliding into her heart.

I ran at him, howling, wanting to tear him to pieces, but only too aware that I could not even touch him. I believe I was hot with rage at that stage, because my vision was scorched, the scene before me unclear. He held on to her, in almost a lover’s embrace, their bodies locked tight. Quickly her struggles diminished so that her arms and legs began to quiver as life fled from her body. So fast, so easy. So contemptible.

She became still, only one foot occasionally twitching, and Moker allowed her to slip to the floor. Holding her shoulders, he knelt with her, his right hand still pressing the thin steel shaft into a point just below her left breast so that it entered her heart. Soon, even the twitching foot lost all movement. She was dead and I yelled in frustration and anguish.

Then I saw something rise from her still body, something that was neither ectoplasm nor vapour, but perhaps a combination of both. It was only inches high and was like some silky ethereal mist, pale enough to be translucent, rising as a wisp of smoke would from a spent match. Within a moment it was gone and I knew the woman’s soul had left its host.

Moker looked around, scanning the shadows for any movement, the ramp for any approaching lights. Except for us the car park’s lowest level was empty. He continued to press the honed needle in further until its flat round base plugged the wound. Surprisingly there was little blood, because the minute hole was effectively sealed; only a small bright seepage of blood ringed the needle’s blunt end. Aghast—no, mortified—even though I’d known this might happen, I thought what a sad and brutal way to die. So sudden and so terrifying those last few seconds of her young life; but then, the consolation was that the ordeal had been so swift. I stared down at her blanched face, her mouth set in a final grimace, her eyes only partially closed behind the wire-framed spectacles, all shock gone from them.

I could hear Moker grunting, the noise as repellent as the man himself. Rising from his crouch, he picked her up easily and swung round towards the old Hillman, the body limp in his arms. I forced myself to walk along behind them, aware that further horror was to follow—hadn’t he mutilated his victims?—but somehow resolved to see this nightmare through. God only knew what I could do to change things, but the spirit of my father had urged me to return to this killer. There had to be a reason.

And yes, there was further horror to follow, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. In its own way, it was far worse.

29

To my surprise, Moker lifted the dead woman onto the back seat of the veteran Hillman. To my further surprise, he climbed in after her. What was this? Was he now going to violate her corpse, just as he had violated the corpses in the mortuary? Or was this where he intended to mutilate his victim? There were no dried bloodstains that I could see in the car, so it was unlikely he’d used it for that purpose before.

I sat in the front passenger seat and twisted round to watch, nauseated, frightened, but morbidly curious. Maybe I was still looking for a way to interfere, to stop this maniac.

Moker took out a large cotton cloth, perhaps just an oversized handkerchief, and stuffed it up the woman’s blouse, laying it over the wound to staunch what little blood spread around the flat base of the knitting needle. Then he buttoned the jacket tight over her breasts, the cloth held against the wound, and I cringed when I saw that his bulging eyes burned with some fervour.