The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) (18 page)

He stood up, crossed the room, and took the netbook down from the bookcase, then came and sat down next to me on the sofa. He opened the computer and tapped in a password, then took a minute to find the right folder. ‘Look.’

I looked and saw a full-screen x-ray. If it hadn’t been for the very human-looking rib cage, I would have assumed I was looking at a bird’s wings.

I said so. Per nodded. ‘Sure, except for this.’ He outlined a pair of white lines about midway down the ribs. ‘This is the problem we have with replicating them. People think it’d be the weight, and that’s a part of it but not all. You can’t just graft a pair of wings on. Humans don’t have the right bone structure and musculature. With arms and legs, you just need to slot the new ones in.’ He pointed to two light shadows. ‘See those? They’re unique to the bird people. They’re almost like another pair of shoulder blades. That’s what gives them control. The wings themselves are hollow, lightweight. Exactly like a bird’s.’

This was much more detailed than Dr Hopewell’s explanation. ‘You think he’s still alive?’

‘Probably, if the wings in the pictures are all that was removed. He’d have suffered some blood loss, but there are no main arteries and they didn’t dig into the flesh.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I wasn’t yet convinced Per wasn’t the one who’d cut Ben’s wings off, but he was at least pretending to be helpful, which was always nice. ‘You saw Ben recently?’

‘Yeah, he visits me every year when he comes down to stay with his dad. He was round a few days before Christmas.’

‘Do you know anything about someone claiming to be his brother?’

Per crossed his legs. Somewhere in my imagination, they clanked. ‘Claiming? Ben brought some guy called Oliver round. Ben said he
was
his brother. I got the idea he was the result of one of Malcolm’s old affairs. You know what Malcolm was like.’

‘That I do. I guess with the amount he played around, it was only a matter of time before he screwed someone infected.’

Per looked uncomfortable.

‘Sorry, that wasn’t necessary.’

‘No, you’re right. I know what he was like.’

I took out my phone and showed him the photo of Ben and the mystery man playing table tennis.

‘Yes, that’s the one. Didn’t surprise me I guess, because he looks like a Brannick.’

I looked at the photo again. Both Ben and the mysterious Oliver were skinny, in both face and body, but otherwise I didn’t see a resemblance. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He looked like I imagine Alister would have.’

That was the son who died in the car accident. ‘You knew him?’

‘Sure. I remember Alister and Leslie. Ali was a sweet child.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got contact details? An address or phone number?’ I asked. My brain was whirring.
Ali
. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Ali was only a step away from Ollie.

‘No, sorry.’

‘Well, thanks. Let me know if you hear anything.’ I stood up, suddenly eager to get home.

‘Absolutely. And let me know when you find Ben. He’s a good boy, no matter what the papers say. He wouldn’t have murdered that girl. No chance.’

Perhaps not, I thought. Ben had an older brother. I’d known that the whole time. I’d just thought he was dead. Perhaps we’d been looking at the wrong deaths from the beginning.

34

I left with a promise from Per that he’d call me if he heard anything. There was no sign of the street weasels as I made my way down the urine-scented stairs. It was fully dark by the time I stepped outside, but with enough light pollution to make out a yellow tint to the cloud ceiling: snow. I shivered and pulled my coat closer.

A car zoomed past, hip-hop blaring from the speakers. Every now and then I had the urge to leave the city. To take Siggie and run away, just the two of us. But no matter where I went, she’d still need carers and I’d still need money. At least in London I lived rent free. Even if it did snow occasionally. I made my way back to the station, expecting to feel snowflakes on my face at any moment, but the sky held itself back. With the exception of light shining underneath the living room door, the house was cold and dark when I let myself in.

An episode of
Big Brother
blared from the TV as Lorraine cycled Sigrid’s legs back and forth. My sister lay on her back on the carpet and chattered about tennis balls.

I leaned against the doorway, ‘Everything okay today?’

‘Fine. She’s been a bit antsy, but fine.’ Lorraine laid one leg down and gripped the other by the thigh, then she moved the leg from side to side. ‘We’re running out of nappies though.’

‘I’m due another pack from the clinic on Friday. Will they last till then?’

Lorraine wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think so, sorry.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll just have to buy some.’

‘If you need help, sweetheart...’

‘I’m fine, Lorraine. Thanks. I’ll get them.’ I hesitated, then said, ‘I know you want to get home, but I’ve got something I need to do this evening. Would you mind staying an extra hour?’

‘No prob.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I wanted to finish watching this anyway.’ She nodded her head towards the TV.

‘I’ll make it up to you.’

Light shone down the stairwell from the attic. I checked the fresh lock I’d put on my bedroom door. Still secure. I used the toilet, then locked the bedroom door behind me.

I prefer to die in my own bed. It’s safe and secure, and I don’t have to worry about anyone fiddling with my body while I’m gone. I pulled off all the bedding and changed the bottom sheet for a plastic one designed for those who wet the bed. I’m not normally gone long enough for it to be a problem, but the thought of death sweat soaked into my bedding gives me the icks.

I lay down and closed my eyes. Remnants of the last death still infected my body. An undercurrent of nausea swirled in my stomach, and I had what I thought of as a pre-headache. Dying came as a relief. I stretched and became aware of weight on my body. I felt a moment of panic before I realised the harpies covering the bed like a pile of stinky soft toys were their usual docile selves. This is why I
don’t
like dying in my own bed. I shifted my weight, and they toppled off, claws catching at my skin like they were a bunch of cats annoyed at being tossed off the bed.

The door to the bathroom was closed, but the sound of water sloshing was audible. I trotted past it and the kitchen, where my not-real mother berated Stanley about some imagined infringement.

Outside on the front step, I breathed a sigh of relief. The river swelled and lapped at my feet, and a moment later a white-sailed ship wove into sight.

I stuck out my thumb.

The Boatman grinned at me. ‘You called.’ His voice was deep, but soft.

‘Hi.’ While I was growing up dead, I fancied myself in love with Charon. The Boatman is tall, dark haired, and beautiful, and had been unnecessarily kind to a not-dead girl who didn’t know where else to go. At the time, I thought it was because he had a soft spot for me, but he’s nice to everyone. It’s part of the job description.

He smiled at me. ‘Anywhere in particular? Or are you just coming along for the ride?’

I smiled back and gave him directions to John Line Terrace.

A thought occurred to me. The Boatman sees everyone. ‘Hey, you haven’t seen my mother have you?’

‘Not recently.’

‘Define recently. A week? Year? Decade?’

‘I don’t know. A good few years at least.’

The little knot in my stomach—the one I’d hardly been aware was there—relaxed. Maybe the crazy old baggage was gone for good. Maybe she’d moved on to whatever came after the underworld. In my heart I knew it was too good to be true, but by my reasoning I was due a little luck.

I stood on the deck of the boat and breathed in the hot, heavy air. The boat was now a little river cruiser putt-putting through flooded suburban streets. The dead waved at us as we went.

We stopped frequently to pick up new passengers—an old man in a hospital gown with his bum peeking out the back, a cyclist in a crushed helmet, an obese man still breathing heavily and clutching at his arm. Charon welcomed each aboard politely and showed them a place to sit. I don’t know where he takes them. He won’t tell me. The only thing I can think of is that the newly dead have to undergo some sort of induction process, but that would just be silly. The ship slid to a stop, and I reached for the ladder Charon threw over the side.

Five minutes later I stood on the pavement outside the car dealership. Its brick walls were solid, as was the graffiti and the broken glass under the boarded-up windows. Not a flicker.

The warped boards bent under the weight of my kick and disintegrated into wet flecks of cardboard. I half-hopped through the window, careful to avoid jagged triangles of broken glass. Inside it was dark and smelt of damp and wet bird.

Harpies covered every inch of floor, squashed up against each other, in some cases standing on each other’s heads, their eyes half-lidded. They watched me with lazy interest but made no move. Whatever had had them riled had passed. Above me the creatures perched on every possible inch of the exposed beams and shelves. Every now and then one lost her balance and fell into the feathered mob below with a damp squawk. Human-like tongues licked the air.

I waded through the throng to find bird-women perched on their sisters’ shoulders outside in the car park. The flock numbered thousands. The cars against the far wall were feather-covered mounds watching me with human faces.

One was familiar. It smiled at me and stretched out dirty wings. She flapped across the swarm towards me and landed on another’s shoulders.

I shivered. ‘I don’t like this version, Siggie. It’s creepy.’

My sister chirruped at me. Her blond hair was matted and tipped with mud. ‘They won’t let you get close, Vivsy. And there aren’t any doors to run through this time.’

I looked back at the cars, or at least at the feathered shape of them. Every single harpy eye focused on me. I backtracked to the street and to Malcolm’s house, where I found the obese woman still in the kitchen. I stood in the doorway and watched her as she made a sandwich, a half-drunk glass of water at her side.

The snake was gone, but there was someone else with her: a not-real teenaged boy with blond hair and an overbite that showed two large rabbit-like teeth. I took the spare seat. Neither the woman nor the not-real boy paid me any attention. The fat woman prepared another sandwich. She liberally slathered butter on two big thick slices of white bread, followed by a squirt of mayonnaise, lettuce, cheddar, tomato, ham, and cucumber. She didn’t bother cutting it in half. Instead she ate methodically, not wasting any time, starting at one end and going up and down the sandwich until it was done. She interspersed every second bite with a long slug of water.

When she finished, she stood and went back to the countertop and helped herself to a bowl of soup from a simmering pot on the stove. Then she filled her water glass from a jug in the fridge and sat down to eat again.

I’d dismissed her as an old death. And she was. But people do in death what they couldn’t do in life, and what this woman wanted was to drink gallons of water and eat like her life depended on it.

I started gently. ‘Hello, I’m Vivia.’

She ignored me and swallowed the soup straight from the bowl. A full roast dinner appeared on the table.

‘Can I ask you some questions?’

The fat woman speared a roasted potato, raised it to her mouth, and chewed slowly. There was no sign of recognition. No blink or acknowledgement. I might have been the ghost.

‘I need to talk to you.’ I pulled her plate away.

That got her attention. She glared at me and pulled it back, but the moment she had her food, I was forgotten again.

I pulled it back again. If there’d been a handbook of how to talk to dead people, stealing food from the ravenous would probably not be on the approved list, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get her attention.

She pulled it back with a hiss. This wasn’t getting us anywhere. I pulled the plate again and held it out of reach.

She screamed with fury and lunged at me. I got a glimpse of her face elongating, the nose diminishing, fangs extending.

I scrambled backwards, and in my haste my chair tipped over and I banged my head against the edge of the table. Dead snake breath huffed in my face as her fangs scraped my nose.

I scuttled backwards on all fours and hit the kitchen wall. The giant snake watched me then, content I wasn’t going to bother her again, lost interest in favour of a line of snuffling white mice on the table. The enormous serpent slithered onto the table and opened her jaw. The mice were surprisingly obliging. The teenaged boy had morphed too. He was now a small ribbon-shaped serpent with bright emerald scales. He had already helped himself to mice, if the fat lump halfway down his scales was any judge.

I don’t know much about snakes. I’d recognise a cobra because they have a hood, and I could probably identify a rattlesnake if I could see the tail end. The giant snake didn’t have a hood or a rattle, but she was
big
. Her head was a longish diamond shape, and her skin was a yellowish khaki covered with brown patches. It was difficult to estimate her length due to the coils, but I thought she was at least ten foot from tail to jaw, and thick bodied. I stared at her until I was sure I’d remember. Maybe a python, I thought. Didn’t they get big enough to eat goats or small children? There were neither on the table, but she was making short work of the mice, and as she swallowed the last, a grey not-real rabbit hopped its way through the back door, leapt onto a chair and then the table, all the while unconcerned about the giant snake in the room.

I couldn’t watch. She could eat not-rabbits to her heart’s content, but I’m squeamish, and the mice were enough to give me the heebies. I turned my face away. There was a single short squeak, and that was enough to have me reaching for the key around my neck.