The red trilogy, p.14
The RED Trilogy, page 14
“Not really surprised,” said Tom. “You’ve been in the wars a bit, haven’t you?”
“How do you . . . You’re not a reporter, are you?” Rachael was suddenly panicking, thinking that maybe the press had got hold of her name, her address; found out she had something to do with that trouble on Greenham Estate. Thinking she was about to be splashed all over the papers and news. It was probably only a matter of time anyway, but still.
Tom laughed. “That’s the second time in two days I’ve been asked that. Do I look like a reporter or something?”
“Not really,” Rachael told him.
“I actually came to ask you a few questions about what happened at the weekend, as part of an ongoing investigation.”
“So you’re with the police, then?” she questioned. Someone had said they’d be ringing, wanted to do a follow up; but who. . . ?
He nodded. “Kind of. I’m with the authorities, let’s put it that way.”
“I . . . I’ve already made a statement,” she told him, searching those blue, blue eyes. Something—actually everything—inside her was telling her she could trust him. Whether it was the way he had about him, or something deeper, Rachael had no idea. It was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Right,” he said, his voice soft and calming. “I was hoping that maybe we could have a chat about what exactly happened, though? In your own words. Anything you can tell me would be really useful.”
Rachael hesitated before answering. “I . . . I guess, though as I say there are gaps, y’know?”
Tom nodded once more. “I can well understand that, and your reluctance to go over all this again. But if it would mean saving lives, Miss Daniels.”
“Rachael,” she told him. “If you’re Tom, then I’m Rachael.”
“Okay,” he said, with a smile. “Whatever you say . . . Rachael.”
She suddenly thought for a moment. “How did you know . . .”
“What?”
“That I was . . . That it was me? I live in a block of flats.”
“There can’t be that many pretty, blonde girls inside there who answer to the name of Daniels.”
She returned the smile, a little awkwardly. “Only my mum who’s visiting, and she’d probably kill you for calling her a ‘girl’. Plus which, her hair’s kind of silvery-blonde.”
“I see,” said Tom.
“Look, I’m just popping to the shop. Do you think maybe we could do this later on?”
Tom smiled again. “Sure. Whenever suits—”
“Denim!” Rachael suddenly blurted out.
He looked confused again, but to be fair he wasn’t the only one; a couple of passers-by had looked over when she’d shouted it out, and were probably now thinking she had some sort of weird form of clothing Tourette’s. “Excuse me?” Tom asked.
Rachael had her finger up again, pointing. “I remember where I saw you now. Denim . . . Denim on denim.”
Tom was still frowning.
“Forrester’s Arms. Last Friday night. Denim on denim.”
A look of recognition crossed his face and now his finger was up and pointing back. “Your friend asked me my name,” he said.
“Tom.” Rachael smiled. “See, I told you I can’t read minds.”
“Well, I . . . There was a fight that night, too,” said Tom.
Rachael looked down at the ground, let out another sigh. “My dick of an ex-boyfriend, causing trouble. Lucky he didn’t get arrested if you were there.” She looked up and at Tom. “I gave him his marching orders for good last night.”
“Okay,” said Tom. “His loss . . . There was someone else there as well, in the fight.”
“Hmm?” Rachael’s mind was already drifting. She put a hand up to her head, which had started throbbing. “Listen, could you come back a bit later? I’m . . . I’m still not feeling quite right.”
He reached out a hand and she thought for a second or two that he was going to place it on her shoulder to steady her. Wouldn’t have protested if he had. Then he withdrew it, and said: “Sure. I’ll come back in a little while. It was nice meeting you, anyway, Miss . . . Rachael.”
This time she did shake his hand, and for some reason felt quite sad when that contact was broken. Then he made to head off back across the road, to his bike—except he paused, looked like he’d thought of something else to ask.
“So, the denim . . . Not a good look?”
Rachael couldn’t help herself. “Not especially. Only about as good as the leathers.”
He nodded a final time. “And there was me thinking retro was in.”
Rachael continued to laugh as he crossed the street, even as he got on his bike, started it up, and pulled away.
Then she carried on down the road, crossing another street. It was only as she turned to cross one more that she spotted the van. Mike’s van. His precious DJ-ing van. Rachael peered across, noting that it was empty.
Parked there and empty.
Must have walked home, she thought to herself. Probably wise after the drink she’d smelled on him. And even as Rachael said the words to herself, she noticed the mostly empty vodka bottle on the dashboard.
She shook her head. Was well shut of the guy . . .
There were flashes then, half remembered things from her dream. Teeth, claws . . . fur.
And red. Blood red.
Rachael put a fist to her temple, driving away the thoughts the . . . memories. Fighting them back, fighting them down.
Breathing in and out a few times, clearing her head, she sped past the vehicle, continuing on towards the shops.
* * *
Zoë looked over as Duncan brought the phone down from his ear, and they continued on towards the hospital.
“Well . . .” she asked, still waiting for him to fill her in.
“He found our girl and had a chat with her. Turns out we’ve met her before, and she’s ‘met’ us.”
“What?”
“Briefly,” said Duncan, increasing his pace a little. “That brawl on Friday night.”
“The one that cost us our mark?”
“Yep. She was right there in the middle of it. Blonde, pretty.”
“How pretty,” asked Zoë. She was beginning to wonder if she’d done the right thing by staying at the warehouse that night, to work on her heat detector.
Duncan turned and shrugged. “His words, not mine. What does it matter?”
He really doesn’t get it, does he? she thought to herself. Even after all this time, even after spending so much of that time together. For a man as clever as he was, Duncan could be so thick sometimes—and knew virtually nothing about women, apparently. “It doesn’t, I suppose,” she said, letting him off the hook—and not for the first time.
“Anyway,” Duncan carried on regardless, “it’s too much of a coincidence that she was there Friday and during whatever went down on Saturday night. Our boy’s clearly got a thing about her.”
Zoë thought about asking who he meant, the ’shifter or Hunter, but let it go. Thought also that they might not be the only ones, not if she was that pretty.
“May even break cover to have another crack in spite of all the fuss, so Hunter’s going to keep an eye on her for the time being. Catch up again with her later. Means he can’t use the Animal Control cover, though, if she knows he was here before the attack on Greenham Estate.”
Zoë nodded. Hunter would think of something, he always did. They were almost at the hospital entrance now, entering through the sliding doors. “It’d be crazy, would draw a lot of attention, but wouldn’t be the first time one of those things has become obsessed with its prey.”
They cleaned their hands with the anti-bacterial alcohol gel provided at the entrance, then walked up to the front desk. Duncan asked which ward Miss Matilda Brindle was on, and the lad there grunted—apparently aggrieved that they’d interrupted his nose-picking. Disgusting, thought Zoë. Why were they even bothering to disinfect themselves on the way in when the staff were doing that? He tore himself away from it for the couple of seconds it took to punch the name into the computer and muttered, “Able Ward”—flinging an arm back in the general direction they needed to go.
“Some men are pigs,” said Zoë as they walked away, casting a glance over her shoulder to find the lad with his arm halfway up one nostril again. And some people just deserve to get eaten, she thought, then regretted it immediately. No one deserved that, not even the most obnoxious prick on the planet.
Duncan hadn’t heard her anyway, too busy trying to follow the coloured signs that would lead them eventually to their destination. Hadn’t thought much either way of that behaviour back there, it seemed, but then Duncan was very often off in a world of his own. She watched him, studying his face once more. He wasn’t what you’d call classically handsome, some people wouldn’t even call him attractive, but there was just something about him. Yes, he was a hairy so and so, but Zoë didn’t mind that; wasn’t as hairy as some. Didn’t even mind the one eyebrow he had that went virtually all the way across his forehead; found it sort of cute, strangely.
Some men were pigs, but not him. Not Duncan.
She was glad they were out and about today, after being cooped up in that warehouse for days: scrutinising the news, revising their plans. Now they were actually doing something again, working as a team, and it felt good. Of course, they weren’t just doing this to keep people like that dimwit back there safe, to protect the population when they didn’t even know they needed protection. There was also a certain amount of vengeance involved. Their chance to hit back at things that had hit them, taken chunks not only out of loved ones, but also their lives.
“This way,” Duncan informed her, leading Zoë down a set of stairs and into a seated area with tables, chairs and a handful of vending machines—selling some of the most unhealthy snacks and drinks on the market. Once again, she had to wonder what kind of message that gave in a place of health and healing.
Just a couple more twists and turns, which brought them out at a kind of crossroads. Duncan looked up and down, then left and right, before spotting the section they needed: Able Ward. Just from peering inside, Zoë could see what a misnomer that was; the residents looked anything but.
By the time she looked back to her side, Duncan had already moved across towards the nurses’ station and was telling the woman behind there—a rake-thin nurse with a pleasant enough face—who they wanted to see.
“. . . afraid visiting isn’t until later on, sir,” she was informing him.
Zoë sighed and joined Duncan, slipping her hand under his arm and then grabbing it for support, tearing up at the same time. “Please . . . it’s just that we’ve come such a long way to see Aunt Matilda. And . . .” Sniff, sniff. “Well, she’s so frail, and now this . . .”
“You’re relatives then?” asked the woman.
Both Duncan and Zoë nodded together, him getting into the act as well. “How is she doing?” he ventured.
“I won’t lie to you,” said the woman, “she’s a very poorly lady, still quite unresponsive. Hasn’t long been out of the ICU.”
That did it, Zoë started to cry into Duncan’s shoulder. Then someone was tapping her on the arm; it was the nurse, leaning over her desk and offering a tissue. As Zoë dabbed at her eyes, under her glasses, the woman looked left and right. “I really shouldn’t but . . . Oh, I don’t suppose it would hurt for a little while.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much!” Zoë spluttered. “You don’t know what this means to us.”
The nurse smiled, then pointed down the aisle. “Last room on the right, bed next to the window.”
Zoë thanked her again and they were off, Duncan trying to match her stride this time. She was using the tissue now to clean her glasses, which had got messed up. “You missed your calling. Could’ve got an Oscar for that little performance,” he informed her.
She breathed on one of the lenses, then rubbed at it with the tissue and grinned. “Got us in, didn’t it?” And she hadn’t missed her calling, not at all. Her calling was this. Her calling was tracking down and killing monsters, same as the rest of the team.
They arrived at the room in question, three beds on either side—spaced out equally. Only four were occupied, leading Zoë to conclude that the patients from the empty beds had either been discharged or had checked out permanently; one thing was for sure, the overcrowding there was in hospitals these days meant they wouldn’t be empty for long. Various machines surrounded the others, all asleep. Every now and again the silence filling the room would be punctuated by a beep or a hiss.
Duncan pointed to the bed nearest the window. There was a body under the covers, with just the shoulders and arms sticking out. That was the only way Zoë could think of it, a body. Because it wasn’t moving, wasn’t awake. Might as well have been a mannequin lying there.
Or a corpse.
The nearer they drew, Zoë could see how very close to actually being one this woman had been. She was covered in bandages, like a mummy, but at the points where they met it was easy to see the damage that had been done underneath. Her skin looked like raw meat.
Not many people survived something like this. Zoë had certainly never heard of or seen any herself. She was staring at the woman, so thin (Matilda made the nurse back at the station look well fed) and so frail to have gone through so much. Less like a body now, more like some poor unfortunate who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Zoë couldn’t help thinking about a ‘wrong time’ that seemed so long ago now, when she’d seen someone in a similar state. Two people in fact: her parents. Couldn’t help flashing back to stepping through the door, letting herself in with a key, home from uni for the weekend—a surprise visit—almost at the end of her M-Degree in Engineering, with a promising future ahead of her . . . Only to find something else ahead of her instead.
Red. Lots and lots of red, running from the living room into the hallway. She had to look, had to see, but wished sometimes she hadn’t made that choice. Wished she’d just gone back out again and pretended that everything was okay, that her parents weren’t in that living room being savaged, being eaten by something that looked so much like her brother—and yet wasn’t.
She’d screamed, of course. Who wouldn’t? But all that achieved was to make the creature aware of her presence, and turn its attentions on her. She’d snapped out of her stupor quick enough to run back out to the hall, but somehow it was there in front of her, blocking off the way to the front door. Leaving her no choice but to head upwards, up the stairs. Trapping her. She’d locked herself in her bedroom, a place she associated with safety—a place where she’d sleep soundly, no matter what shit was going on at university. A place that would no longer be safe ever again, she realised, as the creature shredded the door into toothpicks and broke through. The creature that was still wearing her brother’s face—wasn’t her brother, she knew that, but didn’t want to think about what had happened to him; not yet, she couldn’t handle it yet. She shoved the bed into it, but that barely slowed it down. Zoë remembered thinking to herself, at least if it killed her she’d be with her folks, with her brother. And she must have passed out or something, because the next thing she knew there were two more people in that room with her: one who was finishing hacking the thing that had been about to murder her to pieces with a bloody great axe; and one standing not too far away from her, looking down at her with a worried expression on his face. Looking down and holding his hand out to her . . .
Duncan.
She looked across at him now, at his faraway gaze, and knew he was reliving a few moments from his own past concerning a boss at the programming place where he used to work and various employees who had been his friends. All he had really, as his own parents had died when he was only small and he’d ended up in a children’s home. These were things she’d managed to wheedle out of him eventually, though he was a tough nut to crack.
He was suddenly aware that she was staring at him and it broke the trance. “Would you care to do the honours?” he said, shifting himself so he was shielding her with his body. So that it would look like all she was doing was bending down to talk to her aunt, maybe touching her hand.
When Zoë was actually on a mission: and that mission was twofold. Establish that this was indeed Matilda Brindle spread out in front of them and not the beast. For all they knew this might be where he had chosen to lay low; it would be the perfect cover, after all, one of his own victims. Or, as Craddock had put it, walking pop culture regurgitator that he was: “Doing the Hannibal Lecter Silence of the Lambs thing.”
Zoë took out the mirror, adjusted it so she could see Matilda’s reflection. No matter how good they were, they couldn’t fake that. Couldn’t hide who they truly were from that little piece of reflective glass . . . thankfully, for them.
The old woman was clean, the real deal.
Second part of the mission was to establish that it was the beast who had actually done this to her. And for that Zoë needed to see underneath those bandages, get a proper look at how deep those wounds were. As gently as she could, she began to peel back the white strips of material on the upper arm, on the shoulder. She’d been steeling herself for the sight of this, but it still caused an intake of breath. The claw and teeth marks had been deep; so deep that these ones had needed stitching up and they were still weeping. Jesus, that bastard had made a real mess of her.
And, looking up from the wounds to what was left of the woman’s face, the tears came for real. Zoë couldn’t help it, seeing the old lady like this. She should be at home right now, watching daytime telly with a brew and a chocolate biscuit, not lying here barely alive after being—
But that’s what those things were all about, wasn’t it? Destroying lives. Those of the people they attacked and those who were left behind. Tearing them apart as easily as they did flesh and bone.
“Zoë,” hissed Duncan as a warning, and she only had time to stand and turn before the nurse was there. Not the same one from the station, but her opposite number: a good twenty stone if she was a pound. Wearing a different coloured dress: darker, more senior. Staff nurse perhaps? thought Zoë.
