Dead Girl Walking (23 page)

I glance behind me and see people up and down the pews watching me carefully.

‘I’m ok.’ I push my trembling legs to stand, swaying slightly as Dante supports me. ‘I need to do this.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yeah, it’s one day. I can do one day without freaking out for Gran.’

He kisses me lightly on the head, his fresh scent replacing the stench of alcohol at the back of my throat, and instantly I’m calmer.

‘Dante…’ I add.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m glad you’re here.’

The smile he gives me is so genuinely gorgeous I feel I could burst with pride that he’s standing with me. In what is possibly the weirdest day of my life so far, I’ve managed to pack into the same instant profound sadness, intense fear and overwhelming love. And I’m not sure which emotion is winning right now.

At the doors, people pass the vicar and offer their thanks for a lovely service as they exit. I wonder, vaguely, whether I should have done the same. Instead, Dante and I stand under a spreading fir, away from the mourners now spilling out from the chapel. The gardens are quiet save for the low hum of conversation and the cawing of a lone crow. It’s hard to believe that only a few hundred yards away runs a major city road. A few of the exiting congregation look my way hesitantly, as though they may come over to offer their condolences, but maybe I’m giving
back-off
vibes, as nobody does.

We watch in silence as the chapel empties. Dante hasn’t let go of my hand the whole time. He looks pale and unhappy and I feel like I’m leeching the life from him, but I can’t stop sucking at the strength that he offers.

Gail, one of the last to leave, breaks away from her companions and makes her way towards us, her round face streaked with mascara, the platinum tones of her hair almost white in the winter sun.

‘She was one of my favourites, you know,’ she says, dabbing a ragged tissue around her eyes. ‘A tough old cow, but funny.’

I smile. She’s told me that so many times before but these are the sorts of situations where that’s ok. ‘She thought a lot of you too. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.’

She waves away my gratitude. ‘It was nothing. You had a rough time, you and your Gran, and I would like to think that someone would be there to pick me up if something that awful had happened to me. Everyone needs a little help now and then.’

‘It was above and beyond,’ I say.

She reaches to pull me into a teary hug. I’m surprised to find myself hugging her back as if my life depended on it, now fighting back the first tears of the day. ‘Are you going to be alright?’ she asks.

I can’t imagine what she would say if I gave my honest answer. Instead, I dry my eyes and give the reply that I know she wants, the socially acceptable one, the one I’m always supposed to give.

‘Of course.’

‘You know where I am if you need anything,’ Gail says, giving my arm a quick squeeze. I smile and nod, though I’m pretty sure that I won’t ever call. It’s not that I don’t like her – far from it – it’s just that I think I’ve already burdened her enough. ‘And I’m not just saying that, I mean it.’ She gives me a watery smile. ‘Anything you need, anything at all, just ask.’

‘I will.’

She stares at me thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You won’t,’ she says. ‘But don’t forget that you don’t always have to do everything alone.’ She glances curiously at Dante as she speaks. Before I can think of a suitable reply, she turns to rejoin her companions and I squint my eyes against the sunlight as I watch them head for the car park.

I try to laugh off Gail’s comments as I look at Dante. He doesn’t say anything. My gaze turns to the chapel entrance again as I think about what Gail said. She’s wrong. Some things I do have to do alone.

As Gail disappears, Robert exits the chapel with his colleague. They converse in hushed tones for a moment, before the man heads towards the car park, throwing me a last, lingering glance as he does. I can only guess at what juicy morsel Robert has given him about me. Robert approaches us, arms folded, pulling his woollen coat tight.

‘At least the weather was clear,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘For the service. She had a good day for it.’

‘Yes,’ I say, with as much courtesy as I can manage.

‘You handled it well.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You seemed like you were ok,’ he replies, floundering.

‘Why have you come?’ I ask. For a moment he seems taken aback by my tone, but quickly recovers his suave demeanour.

‘I wanted to pay my respects,’ he says.

‘You wanted to see if something would happen,’ I correct.

He stares at me with a blank look.

‘You wanted to see if it runs in the family,’ I say. ‘The whole resurrection thing.’

‘No, I –’

‘You thought she might burst out of the coffin singing
happy days are here again
and shimmy down the aisle.’

I hear Dante suck in his breath.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ I say to Robert. ‘I’d want to see it too.’

He looks at me, then Dante, then back at me again. Instead of answering, he turns and stalks across the churchyard towards his car.

‘Do you think that was a bit harsh?’ Dante asks.

I shrug. ‘I want to go home now.’

‘What about the wake?’

I look across to where the vicar has seen the last of the congregation away and is heading back into the church. ‘They can do it without me. They’ll have a better time that way. Whose stupid idea was it to have a party to celebrate someone dying anyway?’

Dante throws a longing glance at the funeral cars. ‘It’s a long walk,’ he says.

‘There’s no way you’re getting me back into one of those today. It doesn’t matter how long it takes me to get home now, they can go on without me too.’

‘I know, I wasn’t going to suggest it… I was just saying.’

‘Don’t.’

‘You must be tired after all the emotional trauma, though. Maybe the car is the best idea. We could ask them to take you straight home.’

‘I’ll be walking home,’ I tell him with a resolute frown.

He plunges his hands into his pockets. He’s wearing his suit without a coat and I can see that he’s shivering but he doesn’t say a word about it. ‘I know that. Shall we go, then?’

‘I need to do something first.’

Our steps crunch on the gravel path as we walk. Dante clings to my hand, following where I lead. The grounds of the crematorium are divided into sections: a garden of remembrance for the cremations, and graves with headstones for the burials. It’s not hard to find the first stone I’m looking for – shining grey granite in a part of the gardens that is full of new graves, the earth on them velvet-black and freshly turned. The words inscribed upon it are in Polish.

‘Do you know her?’ Dante asks as I stop in front of it.

‘Not really.’

‘But you knew where to find it. You’ve been here before?’

‘Yes.’

‘How come, if you don’t know her?’

I sense that he’s waiting for a reply. When I don’t offer one he simply squeezes my hand slightly. Then we’re silent as I stand looking at the stone. The only parts I understand are her name and the dates of her life. I can feel Dante’s questioning gaze on me.

‘I wish I’d brought something to put on it now,’ I say.

‘We could go and get flowers if you want,’ Dante says.

I shake my head. ‘I don’t suppose she cares.’ I squint up at him. ‘Let’s go. I need to see some more people.’

I turn and face the path again. We’re quiet as we walk, listening to our footsteps and the steady cawing of that solitary crow. When we reach a secluded plot, bordered by a rambling holly, I stop again. This stone contains three names, three separate sets of dates and some bullshit about going to eternal rest. I didn’t choose the wording, and now I struggle to remember who did. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been Gran. I think the verse came from a standard book at the funeral director’s office. I would have preferred some of Gran’s own words on there, now that I think about it. I run my fingers along the smooth black edges as I murmur their names.

‘I’m sorry,’ Dante says.

‘Me too.’

There is nothing more to say and we stand together reading the stone, the now rapidly fading sun glinting weakly off its polished surface. He folds me into his arms and I fall into him, letting his embrace chase away the ghosts.

I’m exhausted when we arrive back at my house, just as Dante said I would be. He stands awkwardly at the step before realising that I’m not going to ask him in and bidding me goodbye with a quick, candid kiss. I watch his retreating figure, slouched into his pockets as he shuffles away in his too-big jacket, before closing the door and sliding the bolts. I need to eat and get some sleep before I head out again for a new night’s patrol. This is how I have come to think of my nocturnal hunts. I’ve been out every night for days now and not seen anything untoward since my encounter with the drunken girl I rescued from the derelict bus station. The only thing I have is the overwhelming but uncorroborated fear that he is following me everywhere I go. I even smelt him in the chapel earlier. The idea that he is stalking me, as I’m stalking him, fills me with a cold dread, but I’m more certain than ever that he is. It could have been any of those strangers at the funeral today. Does he want to see if the dead girl still walks once he’s had his hands around her neck? Maybe I’m the ultimate prize in some grisly game.

I try to shake the notion as I fill the kettle, but my hands still tremble. I force myself to remember Polish words on a grave, the image of a pale fifteen-year-old lying on a mortuary slab, the ominous, angular shapes hidden underneath death shrouds. The words in Gran’s diary burn through my head; they mingle with the memories of others that are now part of my own, of rocks and glass tearing into my back, fighting for breath with hands at my throat as a cold moon looks on.

Putting the kettle on its stand, I grip the sides of the sink and draw deep breaths. I have to do this – tonight, tomorrow, as many times as it takes.

That’s when my gaze is drawn to the kitchen window. Outside on the sill there’s a flower laid out with great care.

And it looks just like one of the flowers from Gran’s coffin.

I’m showered and calm again, my hair still damp and curling when I head out of the door. I slam it shut, the sound echoing around the silent street. A backlit curtain twitches in the opposite house, a face quickly disappearing as the fabric falls back into
place. My stomach is empty and raw and my finger ends sore from biting them. It’s all good, though; it means I’m keen and alert and hungry for the fight. I hoist the backpack higher and plunge my hands into my jacket pockets. All strategy went nights ago and now I simply head out where my feet take me.

An hour sees me almost on the outskirts of town where there’s a sprawling retail park, full of corporate chain stores and eateries. It’s late – or early depending on which way you look at the day – and most of them are in darkness now, but one building is still full of life. I look up and the lights of the casino are almost haloed in the freezing darkness. I’m surprised, somehow, to find myself here, like I blacked out or something while I walked. Inwardly, I chide myself for letting my guard down.

I’m here now, though, so I take a seat in a dark corner on the wall that skirts the car park. From here, I can see everyone and everything going on in and around the casino entrance, but no one can see me, at least, unless they’re really looking for me.

Weeknights at the gambling den seem quiet and there’s precious little distraction for me as I watch the doors and reflect on my day. I’ve heard it said that some people only start to grieve once the funeral is over and recognition of the end comes. I’m not sure that what I’m doing is grieving. I don’t know what I feel about Gran; I’m sort of numb. I recognise desolation, though, that feeling of being entirely alone in the world. There’s Dante, of course, but I hardly know him. How can I be sure he’ll always be there? There’s also Karl and Gail: two people only around for me out of some misguided sense of professional duty they have that extends to me in a personal capacity. I have my counsellor, Helen. Ditto.

I think of Dante. I can almost smell his warm scent on the night air. I pull my phone out and re-read the text he sent a few days ago.

R u ok?

Hardly even a sentence at all but it means something, so much more. In the midst of all this hate and chaos, there’s a misplaced, incongruous emotion pulling at me as I read the text once again. Do I love him? I don’t know the answer but there must be a reason why the question has even occurred to me. Maybe I just need him and there’s a big difference. I wonder what he’s doing now. He could be asleep, but it’s more likely that he’s in the feverish grip of his nightmare. Maybe he’s awake and even now his mum is holding him, soothing away the terror like she did when he dreamt of
monsters as a little boy. I wonder if he’s ever revealed to her the images that haunt him now, the ones he won’t share with me.

But then something wipes my mind of Dante and everything else so that only one thought remains. I hug the rucksack to my chest and unlace the top, grasping the handle of the knife but leaving it hidden. My breath comes shorter and shallower as I listen. There’s silence, other than the distant bleeping of machines and the low hum of concentrated merriment in the casino. But there’s a smell, one I know only too well. It was there at the funeral today; it was on every girl he killed.

And it’s here now.

I daren’t look behind me. I hold my breath and listen, but there’s no sound to betray a presence nearby. My fingers curl tighter around the hilt of the blade. I scan the car park, my eyes struggling to pierce the gloom in the darkness beyond the few tall lamps. There are a handful of cars, dark shapes punctuating the shadows, but I don’t see any movement. The smell is there, though, scraping at the back of my throat. He has to be behind me, I have to look.

I jerk into action and leap off the wall, spinning around with my knife ready. I almost lose my balance and panic grips me as I right myself. But the road is silent and empty once I collect myself enough to look. Slowly, I approach the scraggy bushes growing along the wall. I extend my knife arm and inch towards them. Parting them with the blade, I dart a look and then jump back. There’s just enough light from the casino to see that nobody is hiding there. I spin around and scan the streets beyond the boundaries of the casino car park but they’re silent and empty.