Текст книги "The Gift of Death"
Автор книги: Sam Ripley
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
36
Kate stared through the one-way mirror at the albino. The bandages that swathed his shoulder and hand only added to his whiteness, his ghostliness.
Josh and another officer were in the interrogation room with him. His every word, every movement, was being recorded. As Kate watched, her eyes flitted between the action in the room and the bank of monitors that were ranged all around her. The vision of him multiplied across several screens was like some kind of technological haunting.
‘So let’s get this straight, Mr Walsh,’ said Josh, getting up from his chair. ‘You say you never even met Bobby Gleason?’
‘Gleason. The name is Gleason.’ There was something snake-like about the way he pronounced it. ‘If you want me to answer your questions you’re going to have to use my proper name.’
‘Okay,’ said Josh. ‘Let’s start again. Mr Gleason – you’re telling me that you never knew the late Bobby Gleason?’
‘That’s right, officer. Never even met him, but often wished I had.’
‘So you didn’t work with him as his accomplice?’
‘That theory of Bill Collins? A load of bull. Gleason was man enough to do what he had to do alone. Didn’t need the help of anyone. It would have been an honour to work with him, but sadly no, it never happened.’
‘So you are saying categorically that you didn’t help Gleason commit those crimes, those rapes and murders? You didn’t’ help with transport, and you were not involved in the kidnapping?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you on any occasion meet with or communicate with Teresa Collins, Frances Silla, Elizabeth Ventura, Tracey Newton or Jane Gardener?’
‘I know who they are, of course. And, in a way, I almost feel like I know them. But no, I’m afraid to say I never met or talked to any of them.’
‘So tell me about Gleason,’ said Josh, in the good cop voice he hated so much. ‘What’s the deal? Why do you dig him so?’
‘He was just – how I can put it? He knew what he wanted and he took it. No messing about. No worrying. No anxiety or procrastination about the rights and wrongs. He was a genius, master of his universe.’
‘So you admire him, is that right?’
‘Jesus, I love the guy. If I was forced to, he’s the one guy I would have turned queer for,’ he said, laughing.
‘You wanted to be him. That’s why you changed your name.’
‘That’s a fair assessment, I guess.’
‘And tell me about Dr Kate Cramer, Cassie Veringer, Jordan Weislander, Dale Hoban. How do you feel about them?’
‘Scum,’ he said, spitting out the word. His pale skin was covered in pink blotches now, marks of anger. ‘Fucking vermin. They deserved everything – and more. Wish I could have carried out the rest of the plan.’
‘Which was what?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘Let’s just say I wanted to make them suffer the way they made Gleason suffer. They took away his freedom. Can you imagine what that must have been like for a man like Gleason?’
‘So you intended to kidnap them? Kill them?’
‘Yeah, but I would have had a bit of fun with them as well.’ As he smiled he bared his sinister pink gums. ‘You know what they say about all work and no play.’
Unable to control his anger any longer, Josh banged his fist down on the table. Shit. He was going to have to restrain himself if he was going to get through this. He took a couple of deep breaths and ran his hand over his face, beaded with perspiration.
‘Can you tell me what you were doing on the night of January 24 and the morning of the January 25?’
‘I can tell you exactly what I was doing. I was murdering a little girl by the name of Sara-Jane Gable. I didn’t realise how easy it would be. My, oh my, the carelessness of some parents. Of course it took me a while to narrow things down, you know, find single-storey houses that were easy to break into and that contained a baby. I had my top five, spread between Glendale, West Hollywood, Echo Park and Korea Town.
‘But that night – the night before – I was given a gift from God. I snuck up outside this one house in Los Feliz and stood outside the screen of a bedroom. The woman said she wanted to put the baby into the other room. It was only right, she said, considering. So I watched as they transferred the child into its cot across the hall. Little did they know that I had already loosened the fastening on the window. They did what they had to do and then when they fell asleep I climbed in through the window. I put my hand over the child’s mouth and took her in my car down to the sea just off the Pacific Coast Highway. I guess she must have died in the ocean.’
The casualness of the way he told his story made Kate want to gag.
‘Do you want me to tell you about the others? Oh, I had great fun with the fingertips – and the tongue, the tongue, that was something else –‘
‘I think we’re going to take a break,’ said Josh, clenching his fists and resisting the impulse to hit this sick fuck in the head. He stormed out of the room and punched the first wall he saw instead. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he said. By the time he had reached Kate in the surveillance room tears of pain – and anger – had formed in his eyes.
‘I know, I just can’t believe it,’ said Kate, walking towards him. ‘The way he talked about murdering that child – so matter of factly, so coolly.’
‘I had to get out of there,’ said Josh. ‘I thought I’d fucking kill him.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘What happens now is that I spend the next couple of days with this psycho listening to him tell me about how he killed that baby, how he sliced off the fingertips from a girl down in Baja and then proceeded to snuff out her life and then how he cut the tongue out of a drugged-up homeless man.’
‘Are you going to be alright?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be fine,’ he said, sighing. ‘All in a day’s work. But once this is over I might just take that vacation.’
They had always talked about going to this little island in the Caribbean together. Just twenty or so little chalets clustered around an archetypal desert island. She had first mentioned it to him when she wanted to get pregnant. Thought it would be the ideal stress-free environment in which to conceive. Of course, it had never happened. And now, well now he’d go with another woman, with Jules.
‘But if everything goes to plan it shouldn’t take too long,’ he said, collapsing on to a chair. ‘It all seems perfectly straightforward to me in a fucked-up kind of way. Guy idolizes dead serial killer. Takes on his identity to the extent that he even changes his fucking name. Then he sets about punishing the people who brought him to justice. We’ve got the motivation and the confession.’
‘What would have happened if we hadn’t found him? How far would he have gone?’
‘Well, after murdering two people – a child and a 19-year-old girl – I get the impression that this guy hasn’t got many scruples.’
‘I’m serious, Josh.’
He took a deep breath. ‘All the way, I guess. After playing his little game I think he would have tried to have finished you off, one by one.’
‘Do you think he’ll say as much?’
‘I’ve no doubt about it.’
‘And that’s bound to help the case against him.’
‘I don’t think we need to worry about the case. It’s as strong as hell. Jordan Weislander is not going to let this one fall by the wayside.’
He took a sip of water. ‘Hey, listen, I’d better get back in there. But I wouldn’t listen to too much more of this if I were you.’
‘Worried about my mental welfare?’ she said, half-joking.
‘Yeah, I kinda am, actually. Go home and get some rest. I’ll call you.’
He moved towards her and kissed her on the cheek. It was the kiss of a friend, not a lover.
‘And thanks for what you did. It was stupid, it was fucking crazy. But it worked.’
‘I know I should have told you, but – I don’t know –‘
‘You wanted to beat me to it? What, you after my job now?’
‘No,’ she said, laughing. But she had wanted to prove something to him. ‘I just felt I had to do something to end it all.’
He looked at one of the monitors. The albino was staring blankly ahead, almost straight into the camera. ‘Well, it’s certainly the end for this fucker. Come on, I’ll see you out.’
37
Kate’s right hand moved down to her stomach. She started to rub her bump in a circular motion, an action that had now become a regular habit. She did it as much for herself, she realised, as for the benefit of the baby inside her. Funny how something so simple could give her so much pleasure.
She smiled to herself as she looked down at her distended stomach. Ten years ago she would have been appalled to walk around LA looking like – what was that funny expression her mother always used? – a pregnant duck, but now she revelled in her new shape. She loved the way her breasts had filled out and the beautiful curve of her belly. She woke up each morning with an ever increasing sense of happiness. At times she felt ecstatic, almost high with joy, even though she endured backache, heartburn, itchy skin, leg cramps and the occasional shortness of breath. She knew, of course, that this newfound sense of ecstasy was probably temporary; her body, after all, was pumping out hormones at an ungodly rate. But it also had something to do with the fact that the man who had been terrorizing her – together with Cassie, Weislander and Hoban – was at last safely locked behind bars. Now nothing – besides the normal and the everyday – could hurt her child.
She scanned the menu as she waited in the West Hollywood diner. She couldn’t decide between the Canadian bacon, with grits, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms and wholegrain toast or the organic granola with mixed wild berries and yoghurt. She checked her cell. Josh had sent her a text. Traffic was bad on the 101. He was going to be fifteen minutes late.
Since the day he had rescued her from Gideon Walsh, just over four months ago, they had developed a more civilized relationship. She had agreed to him having access to the child. He had stopped mentioning Jules in every sentence. At times she kidded herself that Jules did not exist, that they were just taking a break from one another, that there was the possibility that in the future they might get back together. She tried to convince herself that what she felt for him was overwhelming gratefulness at having saved her life. But, deep down, she knew it was something else entirely.
‘How are you today?’ asked the ridiculously handsome waiter. Tall, blonde, turquoise eyes. She could tell he had a toned, athletic body. Too young for her. Not the right type. Another out of work wannabe actor. Insecure, vain, a narcissist. What was she even thinking? ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m just waiting for a friend, but I’ll take one of your mixed fruit smoothies,’ she said, looking down at the menu to hide her embarrassment. Her body was playing tricks on her. It was the hormones. Recently, she had felt so – sensual – that one day she was scared she might try it on with the overweight Puerto Rican who came to tidy her mother’s garden.
Determined to regain her composure – and calm her thoughts – she took out her agenda from her purse. Tonight she was seeing Cassie. She’d invited her over to have supper with her and her mother. Since Gideon Walsh had been locked up more or less everything had got back to normal. Cassie had returned to her apartment – and her cat – in Venice Beach and she had gone back to work at her charity. As a result they hadn’t seen each other on more than a couple of occasions in a few months. She was looking forward to catching up with her.
Kate turned the pages of her journal, noting that she had a meeting with her gallery tomorrow to discuss her show. Although she had started work again within a few days of her ordeal she was still behind schedule and she still had something like fifteen photographs to take. The first time she had gone back down to the sea she had found that her hands had shaken so badly that it was impossible to take a decent shot. Each time she had lifted up her camera and looked through the viewfinder she would see that blurred image of the child floating in the water. But over time she had trained herself to relax, to breathe deeply, to clear her head. And, if anything, the photographs she had taken were even better than before. It was as if she had invested the waves with something altogether more unsettling.
‘Hi, there.’ It was Josh.
‘Hi, sorry I was miles away,’ said Kate, suddenly realising that this was a phrase her mother was using more and more these days. At times, a vagueness seemed to steal over her, and her eyes would cloud over. But then a few minutes later she would be okay again. Maybe she was still missing Saul. Whatever it was she made a note to talk to her about it. She’d try and persuade her to go and see her physician, Dr Harrison, and maybe have some tests.
‘Have you ordered?’
‘No, I was waiting for you.’ She passed the menu to him. ‘What you gonna have?’
She watched him as he looked at the menu. If the child was a boy would it look like him?
He was silent.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
He stared down at the menu. ‘Walsh has had some kind of mental collapse.’
‘What?’
‘I got a call at five this morning. Apparently, last night he started to whisper to himself and then it got louder and louder until he was shouting, screaming. He kept repeating, “I am Bobby Gleason,” over and over again. Guards said that by the early hours it sounded like an animal being tortured, as if he was being torn apart from inside.’
‘Oh my God. How is he now?’ She wasn’t so much worried about his welfare as about whether he was fit to stand trial.
‘By the time I got there he had been sedated.’
‘And what do the doctors think?’
‘They said it was some kind of psychotic attack brought on by a matrix of identity issues.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Kate. ‘So what happens now?’
‘He’ll be out for eight hours or so. They’re going to keep him under observation, but the psychiatrist said that there is a possibility that he may never fully come back. That his mind’s too fucked.’
‘You mean that –‘
‘Yeah, that he may be declared unfit to stand trial.’
‘Shit.’
‘My sentiments exactly.’
‘When will they know?’
‘Next couple of days. Later this week. Maybe next. It could be a temporary brain fuck or something more permanent.’
Kate’s hand dropped to her stomach. She felt the blood drain out of her face.
‘But don’t worry, even if he’s not fit to stand trial, what this guy’s done means he’s going to be locked up for the rest of his life.’
‘You sure?’
‘Completely.’
The waiter was standing by them. ‘Are you guys ready?’
She looked down at the menu once more. ‘You know what, I think I’ll give it a miss.’
‘You’ve got to eat for two now, you know,’ said the waiter, suddenly a little too friendly.
She forced a smile, something she always hated to do. ‘I guess the little guy’s just not hungry.’
38
Cassie stroked her cat and listened to it purr. If she could make the same noise she would, she thought; a pure expression of contentment emanating from deep inside. She realised she hadn’t felt this happy since – well, since before Gleason attempted to rob her of her life. Sure, after his arrest and death she had felt a sense of overwhelming relief, and a degree of safety. Maybe, at the back of her mind, she had always believed that there was someone else out there. And now? The albino, while he had confessed to the gruesome array of presents – the dead baby, the tongue, the eyes, and my God, those fingertips – he denied the fact that he had ever worked with Gleason. What did that mean? Could they even trust the word of someone so fucked up? She refused to worry about it. The main thing was that the psycho was locked up. He couldn’t harm her now.
As she lay back on the sofa she ran her hand down the cat’s back. Moisie started to make kneading movements on her leg. Suddenly one his claws dug a little too sharply into her skin. ‘Ouch, that hurts,’ she said, trying to pick him up and move him off her. But then she felt guilty for having left him with her neighbour for so many weeks. And he was having such a good time. So she let him be and endured the occasional scratch of skin.
Suddenly her cell rang. Clutching Moisie with one hand she reached down by her legs for her purse.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Cassie, it’s Kate.’
‘Oh, hi. I’m really looking forward to tonight.’
‘Yeah, that’s why I was ringing. I’ve booked a cab for you for six. Is that okay?’
‘That’s great.’
‘So it should be waiting outside. I’ve given him instructions and asked him to help you to the car if –‘
‘I’m not crippled,’ she said, laughing.
‘I know, I know. But if you had let me finish. I was about to say, if you need it, that’s all. Also, I told him what a stubborn piece of work you were as well.’
‘Well, thank you very much. And I could say the same about you as well.’
‘We’ll call it quits then, shall we?’
‘Deal.’
There was a pause on the line. The light-hearted conversation had come to an end. Cassie knew her friend was about to tell her something, something not good.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Walsh,’ said Kate. She refused to call him by his new name. ‘He’s had a complete mental breakdown. But it’s nothing to worry about – for us, I mean.’
‘So he won’t go to trial?’
‘There is that possibility. But Josh says whatever happens Walsh is going to spend the rest of his life behind bars – either in prison or in a secure hospital.’
The good mood that had enveloped her earlier disappeared in an instant. That familiar shadow of fear that had once cast its spell over her edged its way a little closer. Would she ever be free of Gleason?
‘Hey, don’t worry,’ said Kate. ‘We’re going to have a good time tonight, no matter what. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘And be ready at six. The guy’s from Courtesy Cars. They’re reliable. And you can stay overnight if you’d like.’
‘Thanks. But I think I’d better get back for you know who. He’s become like my stalker recently, you won’t believe it.’ He dug his claws a little deeper into her leg. ‘Hey, Moisie, cut it out!’
‘Great, that’s all you need. Anyway I’ll let you two enjoy whatever sick game it is you’re playing. See you later.’
After playing with Moisie for another fifteen minutes Cassie caught up with some reports from work, reading them in Braille, and made a few calls. A sponsor was dragging his heels on a potentially lucrative injection of cash into the charity. The rent agreement had still not been finalised. And she was having problems with one of her male employees, a blind man who claimed he had been discriminated against because of his gender in a round of recent staff restructuring. The truth was he just wasn’t very good at his job.
She fixed herself a bite to eat, a light salad of endive leaves, tomatoes, basil and tuna. She listened to some music as she ran herself a bath. She checked the temperature. Perfect. As she slipped into the warm water she felt herself relax. The sensation, she thought, was almost as if she was disappearing, as if she were being erased. She stayed immobile, hardly breathing, until the temperature of the water dropped. Then she quickly soaped herself, washed and rinsed her hair and pulled the plug from the bath. She stood up, reached for the towel on the side of the bath, stepped out and dried herself.
What should she wear? Even though she couldn’t see herself she always tried to be careful about her appearance. She hated to be one of those blind women who wore mismatched items – a pair of red socks with, say, a blue polka-dot blouse and a tan skirt. But years ago she had come to the decision to restrict the colour scheme of her wardrobe. When she went shopping she asked whichever friend she was with to pick out mostly navy blues, greys, blacks, whites, with the occasional – very occasional – splash of colour. Tonight, she might choose a pair of black pants with that new white blouse. There was that amber necklace which would work well with that. Or there was the option of blue jeans with that vintage blouse she had inherited from her mother.
She walked into her bedroom and opened her wardrobe door. She ran her hands along the clothes, enjoying the sensation of fabric brushing against her skin. She came to the vintage blouse – she knew it by the raised seams that ran down both sleeves – and brought it close to her face. Did it still smell like her mother or was she imagining that? As she fastened the pearl buttons – one at each of the cuffs, two at the neckline – she remembered a night from her childhood. How old would she have been? About ten? Her mother, a fashion editor on a magazine, was standing by the door of their house in Connecticut. She was wearing the same blouse. Her blonde hair was tied back and she was wearing red lipstick and a light covering of blusher. She thought her mom looked so pretty that night. It was the same night that she had walked out on her family.
For months – years – afterwards, Cassie couldn’t understand why her mother had left. As a child, she knew her dad had mood swings. He also seemed to stink of something strange. Later, she learnt that her father, a failed writer, suffered from depression and was an alcoholic. Dad tried to cope, but finally looking after two children – her and her younger brother, Robbie – had gotten too much for him. He started to drink more and one day he went into hospital and never came out again. That was the same week she saw her mother again, a woman she said she would hate until her dying day. Cassie didn’t have to wait long – six months later her mom died in a car crash.
As she ran a finger down the sleeve of the blouse she wished that, at the time, she could have felt it in herself to forgive her mother. The older woman had so clearly wanted to be friends. But Cassie had told her where to go. Nice one. And now she was dead. Perhaps it was this sense of guilt that lay behind her decision to keep, and wear, some of her old clothes.
Jesus. How on earth had she let herself get so morose? Only a couple of hours back she had felt so happy and carefree. And tonight she was supposed to be having fun.
She quickly took off the blouse and replaced it with a simple pale grey shirt. She pulled on some jeans, brushed her hair, stepped into some flat pumps. She pressed the talking clock by her bed. It was nearly six. Shit. And she still had to feed the cat.
She picked up the jar of dry food, expecting to hear him trill. She did it again. Nothing. She whistled, trying to keep the sound clear and steady. He wasn’t allowed out. There was nowhere for him to go.
Something was wrong.
‘Moisie!’ she called. ‘Dinnertime.’
And then she suddenly felt him by her legs, snaking around her ankles.
‘Gee, you scared me,’ she said, reaching down to stroke his back. ‘What you’ve been up to?’ She listened as he pushed the morsels of dried food around his plate with his nose. ‘You not hungry? Well try and make an effort. I haven’t got time to hang around.’
She grabbed her keys from the bowl in the kitchen, her purse and her white stick. She made certain she double-locked the door from the outside and pressed the button for the elevator. As she waited, she heard another door opening, somebody stepping out.
‘Hi, Cassie, you going out for the night?’ It was Ron from next door.
‘Yeah, just over to Kate’s house. But I’ll be back later.’
‘You need any help getting down?’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’
‘And how’s my man? Hope I didn’t turn him queer.’
Cassie laughed. ‘I always suspected he was a bit gay anyway,’ she said.
Just then the bell for the elevator rang and the doors opened. Ron guided her inside, pressed the ground floor button for her and said goodnight. He was such a lovely neighbour, she thought. Who else would have taken in a cat for over five weeks? And he refused to take money for food. In fact, she suspected that he fed Moisie on leftovers. And not just any old leftovers. Leftovers that included prime cuts of beef and chicken from the deli round the corner and good quality yellow fin tuna steak he kept in his freezer compartment.
As the doors opened she heard a cacophony of sounds from the boardwalk. The glide of rollerskates on the promenade. A couple of children squealing in delight. The hiss of a coffee machine. And in the distance there was LA’s eternal base note – the constant hum of traffic.
Then footsteps.
‘Can I help you?’
It was a man. In his thirties, Cassie thought. A voice, deep and gravelly, not unlike one she had heard once before. Where was it?
‘I’m – I’m waiting for a cab.’
‘Courtesy cars. I’m just out front. Do you need any help?’
‘No, if you just walk ahead I can follow your footsteps.’
‘Okay. Will do. But just ask if you need my arm or whatever.’
Cassie used her stick to guide her through the lobby to outside. He’d left his motor running. Must be because of the air con inside the car. It was still quite humid, even at this time of day.
She heard a door open and with the edge of her stick caught the bottom of the tyre.
‘Just a little towards the right and you’re all set,’ he said.
She felt his hand on the back of her shoulder.
‘There you go,’ he said, as she climbed into the back of the cab. He slammed the door and got in the front.
‘Where you going?’
‘Beverly Hills. Just off Tower Grove Drive.’
‘No problem.’
They drove in silence on the freeway, the journey punctuated by frequent stops and starts as the traffic ebbed and flowed.
‘Fuck, I’m way out of gas,’ said the driver after about fifteen minutes. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear. Would you mind if I just pulled off the freeway?’
‘No problem,’ said Cassie, even though she did feel a little uncomfortable. Yet Kate had booked the cab. It was a company she trusted. Would could go wrong?
She felt the car swerve as it took the next exit. As she opened her window a little to get a breath of fresh air she heard the sound of passing traffic and the pungent smell of fumes. The driver must have seen her because he started to talk.
‘I’d close that if I were you,’ he said. ‘Smog. Even worse this year than last, I reckon.’
‘I was just trying to tell which neighbourhood I was in,’ said Cassie, closing the window.
Nothing.
‘I said I was just trying to find out where we were?’ There was a pause. ‘Where are we exactly?’
The car braked quickly, forcing her forwards. The seat belt dug sharply into her shoulder. As she reached out to steady herself she heard the central locking system click into action. Then there was the noise of some kind of carport door opening. Then – even worse – the sound of it closing behind her.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just pulling in,’ he said.
It was then she realised. It was the voice. She knew there was something familiar. It reminded her of Gleason’s.
‘No, no,’ she said, now nearly paralysed with fear. She tried to reach into her bag for her cell phone, but she was too slow. In an instant, the driver had switched off the engine. She heard his door opening, closing. Now he was opening her door.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he said.
Cassie fumbled with the phone. The ridges that marked out the numbers seemed to melt beneath her fingers.
‘It’s useless anyway,’ he said. ‘There’s no reception. I made sure of that.’
‘Who – who are you?’ she said, the words catching in her throat.
‘Don’t I look familiar? Oh, sorry about that. I forgot you can’t see.’
She automatically moved further away from the voice, further along the back seat towards the other door, the one that was not open. She found the handle and with her shaking hands managed to pull it towards her.
‘You can get out that side if you prefer,’ he said. She heard footsteps walking around the car. ‘Here, let me help.’
As he opened the door she moved back towards the middle.
‘I get the impression you don’t want to get out. Come on, don’t be rude.’
He reached into the car and tried to grab her. With all her force she dug her nails into his skin. But he quickly bent back her hand so it almost seemed parallel with her arm. It felt as though her wrist was going to splinter, as though her bones were about to pierce her skin.
‘Come on, bitch,’ he said, pulling her out of the car. She struggled, flipping and flexing every muscle in her body, a caught fish suddenly wrenched on to land.
He tried to clamp a hand over her mouth, but she bit him hard. As she breathed in, the smell of the place attacked the back of her throat. Car oil, burnt car rubber, machinery grease. Was she in a workshop, a car repair garage? But there was something else that lingered in the stagnant air. What was it? It was something putrid, something rank.
He clasped his hand over her mouth and nose. It was then it came to her. The smell. It was decomposing flesh.
She felt herself falling, almost losing consciousness. If she stopped struggling it would all be over so much quicker. There would be no more pain, no more suffering. Just a state of what? Nothingness. Emptiness. Non-existence.
She wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t going to give in. Not now. Not after everything she had been through.
With all her force she managed to wrench his hand away from her. Then she stretched out her arms, her fingers searching the empty space before her.
‘You want to feel my face, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Just like you did before.’
He pulled her towards him, almost as if he were bringing her to him in a passionate embrace. He grabbed her hands and forced them to his face.
‘There you go, feel away. See me.’
She could smell his sickly sweet sweat and the stench of cigarettes and beer on his breath.
Cassie ran her hands over the contours of his face, her fingers moving like the arms of an octopus. He had a strong jaw, a square face, a high forehead. Just like – but it couldn’t be possible.
He started to laugh.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘But – but,’ she cried. ‘I don’t understand. You’re the same, but –‘
‘But what?’
At that moment she forced her thumbs deep into his eye sockets. He screamed in pain, rearing backwards and knocking over a chair. She flailed around, desperate to find something – some shape, object or surface – she could picture in her head. The atmosphere was hot, oppressive. Or was that just fear tightening her throat? She felt like she was swimming, drowning in black tar.
She staggered back to the car. She felt the hood of the car, pulsing out heat. If he had opened the carport doors automatically there must be a remote control somewhere. She dropped to her hands to try and get a sense of the place. She started to trace the edge of the tiled floor – she could feel the ridges, the grouting, the cool surfaces – but then she felt something wet and sticky. She reeled back in panic. Slowly she brought her hands forwards. It was only oil.
