Dead Girl Walking (22 page)

The neat terraced streets give way to the rambling outskirts of the town centre. Everything looks broken here, sinister in the deserted gloom and I’m constantly hearing footsteps and seeing running shadows that aren’t there. I know he must be out here somewhere, and the thought is making me more jumpy than I care to admit. Mismatched shop hoardings advertise cheap phone calls and even cheaper food. Cats yowl in the distance and in the corner of my vision dark shapes scurry in and out of the shadows. Foxes, rats, I’m not sure, but they run and hide when I approach. The neon sign of the sex shop flickers with an allure as unconvincing as the people who trade within it. The odd car passes me once in a while, but, thankfully, the roads are otherwise deserted.

I check my phone briefly to see that there are no missed calls and no messages. At least that’s one less thing to worry about.

I’m walking in a sort of daze, wholly absorbed by my vigilance and desperately trying to plan what the hell I’ll do if I actually meet this guy, when the crisp silence is cracked by a scream. I stop dead and listen. Everything is immediately hushed again and all I can hear is the roaring of my own blood. I feel for the hilt of the blade in my bag and grasp it in readiness, willing the sound to repeat so I can get a fix on it. I wait. Just as I’m about to start walking again there’s another sound, a muffled, strangled cry this time. I listen hard again, but I still can’t tell which direction it’s coming from and frustration makes tears prick my eyes. Then I hear a man’s voice. I steady myself and concentrate. I draw my knife. Ahead there’s a Chinese restaurant, closed up and in darkness. I run for it. By the side of the restaurant runs an alleyway, stacked with bins and pallets. The smells of spice and oil still hang in the air even though cooking must have stopped hours ago. My breath is hard in my throat as I skid to a halt at the opening. When I look down, there’s no one there.

Another scream and this time I’m sure it’s coming from the old bus station that’s a couple of blocks further on. I break into a run again, the sound of my feet slapping the pavement, echoing across the silent street. The building rises ahead: a fenced off block of crumbling sixties architecture. The dark caverns of its old windows warn me away. Gripping my knife, I squeeze through a gap in the fencing and snake around the piles of rubble towards the interior. I’m tense and hyper-aware but oddly calm now that I’m active. There’s a scuffling noise and a half-sob coming from the boarded-up café. I listen hard and let the sounds guide me. The door of the café is
open. In the gloom, I can just make out their shadows. I step forward and my foot knocks a loose board. The shapes break apart and the bigger one lumbers towards me. I’m thrown out of the doorway and land on my back. The knife flies from my hand; I hear it skitter over the concrete. I jump to my feet to see the shadow of a man clamber over the fence and run.

From back in the dark room there’s sobbing. I feel around for my knife, wincing as my finger catches the blade. I shove it into my rucksack.

‘Who is it?’ The small voice comes from the café interior. She sounds young.

‘I won’t hurt you.’

‘You’re a girl…’

‘Yep. And so are you. Unless someone just kicked you really hard in the nuts to make your voice that high.’

She doesn’t reply. It’s a crappy joke made as a reaction to my nerves and doesn’t justify a response. I inch towards her. I can smell the alcohol on her from here. But not the right kind.

‘You’ve been drinking?’ I ask.

‘A few,’ she says.

‘What happened?’

‘He was chatting me up, in the pub. He seemed nice, we came down here for… you know… but then he wanted to get rough.’

‘What kind of rough?’ At that moment, she disgusts me, but I try to keep it from my voice.

She’s silent. ‘Weird stuff,’ she says finally.

‘Did it seem like he was violent?’

‘Like he could be, yeah.’

I touch her arm and she recoils. ‘It’s ok. Do you have a phone?’

‘It’s in my bag and I dropped it.’

‘Ok,’ I take a deep breath. ‘We need to call the police so you can get home safe.’ I think this through for a moment. If I call, they’ll have my number and Karl may get wind of what I’m up to. But I can’t leave her here like this.

‘I don’t want the police,’ she says.

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’ll think I’m a slag.’

I frown. ‘Slag or not, nobody should be in danger like that.’ I take her arm gently. ‘Come on, we shouldn’t stay here.’

She lets me lead her without argument and we make our way through the gap in the fence and out onto the lamp-lit streets again. In the light I can see her properly. She’s wearing skinny jeans and big trainers, a denim jacket fastened loosely over a football top. Not exactly provocative. Her rounded cheeks are streaked with mascara. She looks as though she might be pretty if she scrubbed some of that make-up off. Her expression is somewhere between gratitude and mortification as she looks up at me.

‘You want me to walk you home?’

She shakes her head.

‘Tough. Which way is it?’

She turns and heads back towards the Chinese restaurant and I keep step. My gaze flits over the streets and I’m careful to keep my knife in reach as we walk, but instinct tells me he’s long gone.

‘What did he look like?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘A bit muscly, really short, dark hair.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah, I can’t remember much else about him.’

My mind turns over this information. Not my man, then, just some oiled-up dick with a penchant for weirdness. The way he shot off as soon as I turned up should have told me that really. Suddenly, I find this girl’s company irritating and my step quickens so that I can get rid of her and get back out searching for the right guy. I pull out my phone to check the time and see that there are now three missed calls from Dante. It looks like time’s up for tonight.

When I get back he’s sitting in the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket. He looks up.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Out,’ I say, slinging the rucksack in a cupboard.

‘In the middle of the night?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Normally you can’t get the house locked up tight enough. So tonight you just felt safe to walk the streets by yourself?’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

‘Cassie, haven’t you seen the news? There’s some weirdo out there stalking girls. He’s
killing
them. Are you seriously telling me that you didn’t consider that before you took off tonight?’

‘It’s fine. I had a knife with me.’

His face suddenly loses all colour. ‘
What
?’

I take the knife from the bag and slide it back into the block. ‘See. You don’t need to worry.’

‘My God, Cassie, this is serious shit. You’ve got to tell me what is going on. Do you know something about the killer? Are you helping the police, is that it?’ His voice is weak. While his reaction to my venturing out is pretty normal I guess, the fear in his voice seems more than it should be. Is that fear for me, or for himself?

‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

‘You have to give me something, Cassie. I’m putting everything I have into believing that I… that
we
have a future… but I’m finding it harder every day.’

‘We do… I thought you were going to trust me. I promised I would never hurt you.’

‘I want to, but you’re keeping all these secrets and I can’t get a straight answer.’

‘It’s probably easier if you don’t ask then.’

He pulls the blanket tighter. ‘I want to believe that we have something worth the risk,’ he says. ‘But how can I when you never tell me anything?’

‘I’m a risk?’

He stares at me.

‘I needed to get out,’ I say. ‘I’m screwed up. Sometimes I feel like I want to be locked up, sometimes I feel like I want to be out at night. That’s all there is to it.’ I shrug off my coat and take a seat. ‘We’re both screwed up. Isn’t that why we’re together?’

‘I can’t do this,’ he says, his gaze dropping to the table.

‘You’ve said that before.’

He looks up at me. He might speak, but he doesn’t.

‘You had the nightmare?’ I ask.

He nods, folds his arms tight, gripping the blanket. I know I should have been here to hold him, to kiss away the fear. The thought scores at my emotions.

‘We’re both safe in here and the door is locked now,’ I tell him.

He nods again. I go over and trail my fingers across his hair. He closes his eyes and I bend to kiss him. His lips are unmoving beneath mine.

‘Nothing is going to hurt you while I’m here,’ I whisper.

He returns my kiss but his is a fragile thing, tentative and uncertain. I straddle him and plunge my hands into his hair. I feel him stir beneath me and his kisses harden.

Then he pushes me gently away. ‘Not like this,’ he says.

‘Like what?’

‘It just doesn’t feel like the time for this now.’

He’s right. It’s a defence, something to chase away the ghosts, something to take his mind off where I’ve been and my mind off the fact that I wasn’t here for him. I lean my forehead on his, closing my eyes. ‘What do you want?’

‘Just hold me?’ he whispers.

So we wrap ourselves around each other as the world sleeps on.

Gran’s coffin is carried into the tiny chapel. I follow alone with slow steps, my gaze searching the pews. The air inside is heavy with the smells of old furniture wax and damp. It’s cold too, despite all the clunky old radiators that line the outer walls. There are more people here than I expected, but there’s only one that matters. Dante stands at the front, hovering near the row of seats as though he’s uncertain he belongs there. Dressed in a black suit, his hair neater than usual, he looks younger, somehow, like a kid playing dress-up with his dad’s work clothes. He gives me a small, strained smile and the overwhelming relief I feel at seeing him there shocks even me. Gail and some of the other carers from Meadowview are sitting in the row behind him. I’m painfully aware of stares from the congregation, but why wouldn’t they stare? After all, I’m the dead girl walking.

As I make my way up the aisle, I spot Robert Johnson sitting a few rows back from the front. As I’m sure he has no interest in or condolences to offer for Gran’s death, I can only assume he’s after another story about the freak. Another man sits with him: black suit and heavy woollen coat similar to Robert’s. They’re deep in conversation until I approach their row. They both look up. I see that it’s Robert’s colleague, the photographer. He looks different without his beanie hat pulled tight over his head. His keen eyes feel like they’re burning through me. Robert tries to catch my eye with what he must think is a sympathetic look. I turn away and pretend I haven’t seen either of them.

As the coffin reaches its destination and the bearers hoist it onto a stand near the church altar, I make my way over to Dante. We sit and he reaches for my hand. I can’t hold it tight enough; every ounce of strength I have right now is coming from him. The vicar begins to speak. Whatever he’s saying, to me, it’s just noise. The sun glaring through the stained glass windows throws coloured shapes over the pulpit. I glance behind me to see some of the older people nodding their heads reverently at something the vicar said. I guess they must have known Gran, though I’ve never seen any of them before. I hear a sniffle from behind me. Gail is crying. She’s the only one in the whole chapel who is. It’s not that I don’t want to; it’s just that I can’t. Crying means admitting she’s gone. Admitting she’s gone means admitting I’m alone. I wish I could tell what the vicar is saying; it’s probably a really amusing anecdote or praise of some amazing quality of hers. But my brain simply won’t process his words. I
glance across at Dante in his black suit and tie and stark white shirt. I can see in his expression how much he feels he doesn’t belong here. He returns my glance with a brief, small smile. I turn my face to the front and try to listen again. Gran’s coffin waits on the stand, garlanded with wreaths of spring flowers – no lilies here. I wonder if Gran had discussed it at some point with Gail. When I look properly I see that the coffin is tiny, and all I can think about is how that small box can’t be all that’s left of her.

We stand to sing a hymn. Gran would have hated it. She would have hated this whole funeral. I can’t blame Gail for that, though. I move my mouth to the words but I don’t sing. Dante doesn’t either; he just grips my hand tighter still. As the congregation drones, I remember that I chose only one song for the service and now I’m so glad I did.

After what seems like forever, yet is no time at all, the final hymn is sung and the last prayer has been uttered and the coffin slowly begins to descend into the floor for cremation beneath our feet. The music starts to play, the music that I chose in Gran’s memory, and every head turns sharply towards me. Gran disappears beneath the floor to Johnny Rotten’s ‘My Way’. The shock on the faces of every member of the congregation gives me the sudden, crazy urge to giggle. Gran would have loved it; she’d have laughed her freaking head off at their faces. Dante turns to me with a shy smile, the only person in the room who gets the joke.

But a smell suddenly hits me and my legs feel like they’re going to collapse. I whip my head around to see who’s nearby, but none of the faces I see look like the one from my dreams. My breathing’s shallow and rapid as I grasp Dante’s hand.

‘What’s wrong?’ he mouths at me.

I can’t speak so I just stare at him, my eyes wide. He pulls me closer and supports me with an encircling arm. I know I’m trembling as I lean against him but I can’t stop. Everyone is looking at me and the walls are closing in. The music is now harsh and discordant and pain pulses in my head in time with my pounding heart.

Dante sits me down and pulls me close, rubbing my arm to comfort me.

It’s ok to be sad,’ he says quietly.

‘Can you smell anything?’

He pulls away to give me a questioning look. ‘Like what?’

‘Like… cleaning alcohol?’

He shakes his head. ‘Are you ok? We could go outside if you’re not well.’