her head if you keep this up.”
“I don’t know what you want!”
“You know damn well. Sweet Elizabeth, I wonder what she’ll say when I tell her that Daddy’s the reason her fingers are getting pu—”
“Please, stop!”
His plaintive cry somehow drowned out the rest of my sentence, leaving the trailing syllables of “incinerator” hanging dreadfully in the air. The silence began to accumulate tension; I condensed my intent into a hateful stare until he spoke again.
“Please. I’ll do whatever you need.”
Crushed: every neuron in his brain was critically focused on the potential consequences of his actions.
“Please.”
I leashed my venom back in and tried to calm myself. I could feel my pulse in my eyes and I realised I was still holding the knife out. I lowered it and spoke.
“You had a boy. A boy in your morgue. Platinum hair, blue eyes, tanned. Slightly shorter than me. He came in after this—”
—I kicked the paper pettily—
“—commissioner. Before the old couple. I want to know everything.”
Confusion fought with fear and apprehension, gaining a foothold in his eyes.
“Boy?”
“The boy. He was between the police commissioner and two decrepits. You do run this morgue, don’t you?”
Desperation filled his eyes. Coughs racked him as he tried to form a response, but all that spilled out was a stutter. I rolled my eyes.
“If you don’t use your tongue, I’ll cut it out. Take a breath, and save your daughter.”
That focused him. For all the foulness of my current state, I couldn’t help but enjoy the kick of hijacking family emotions.
“Okay. Okay. I know this isn’t... Isn’t what you want to hear. But there was no boy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no boy.”
The eyeball-pulse jacked itself up another notch. I was breathing heavily; oxygen rushed through my blood and made me feel dizzy.
“There was no boy.”
Confusion saturated the air. If there was a boy, he’d know. And if he knew, he would have told me. Because if he didn’t tell me, his daughter... He would have told me. He would have told me.
He would have told me. But he didn’t.
A voice started eating through the mist. It was Sturrock.
“—to hear, but you aren’t well. I can get you help. Just...put the knife down. Please.”
He had moved from his spot on the bed, and was standing beside me. His hand lightly touched mine; something triggered and I struck out. Alex fell to the floor. I heard gasps, but they were high-pitched and might have been my own.
Fragments of time passed before I struck again, steel-toed boots driving into the body below me. Sturrock tried to lift himself, but after a second kick he stopped struggling and lay still. Three times, four times, five times I lashed out, stopping only when I heard the ribs crack. I dug into my coat and threw the first pill I could find down my throat. Bitter: straitjacket . The night was just starting.
I plundered the medicine cabinet, devouring a handful of painkillers and stowing the rest in my pocket. Pausing to try force the doorman into the oven, I settled for the liberal application of a fancy corkscrew. The night was young, and the horror was loose.
***
Blink.
I spindle-crept from a windowsill. A man was sleeping; he had an attractive jawline, I remember. Two minutes were spent hovering a hair above his face, before his eyes opened. My teeth unsheathed and I pounced.
I shook the body like a ragdoll. When I dropped it, it wasn’t the man anymore: I must have moved on. Tiny, frightened, red-flecked eyes stared into my own before the darkness swept in again. My ears rang from the shrieking.
The ringing intensified. Shots screamed past my head. I wasn’t in the safe zone anymore, and my clothes were drenched in residual person. In my right hand nestled a red rock; in my left, a lock of platinum blonde hair— oh god what have
“I don’t know what you want!”
“You know damn well. Sweet Elizabeth, I wonder what she’ll say when I tell her that Daddy’s the reason her fingers are getting pu—”
“Please, stop!”
His plaintive cry somehow drowned out the rest of my sentence, leaving the trailing syllables of “incinerator” hanging dreadfully in the air. The silence began to accumulate tension; I condensed my intent into a hateful stare until he spoke again.
“Please. I’ll do whatever you need.”
Crushed: every neuron in his brain was critically focused on the potential consequences of his actions.
“Please.”
I leashed my venom back in and tried to calm myself. I could feel my pulse in my eyes and I realised I was still holding the knife out. I lowered it and spoke.
“You had a boy. A boy in your morgue. Platinum hair, blue eyes, tanned. Slightly shorter than me. He came in after this—”
—I kicked the paper pettily—
“—commissioner. Before the old couple. I want to know everything.”
Confusion fought with fear and apprehension, gaining a foothold in his eyes.
“Boy?”
“The boy. He was between the police commissioner and two decrepits. You do run this morgue, don’t you?”
Desperation filled his eyes. Coughs racked him as he tried to form a response, but all that spilled out was a stutter. I rolled my eyes.
“If you don’t use your tongue, I’ll cut it out. Take a breath, and save your daughter.”
That focused him. For all the foulness of my current state, I couldn’t help but enjoy the kick of hijacking family emotions.
“Okay. Okay. I know this isn’t... Isn’t what you want to hear. But there was no boy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no boy.”
The eyeball-pulse jacked itself up another notch. I was breathing heavily; oxygen rushed through my blood and made me feel dizzy.
“There was no boy.”
Confusion saturated the air. If there was a boy, he’d know. And if he knew, he would have told me. Because if he didn’t tell me, his daughter... He would have told me. He would have told me.
He would have told me. But he didn’t.
A voice started eating through the mist. It was Sturrock.
“—to hear, but you aren’t well. I can get you help. Just...put the knife down. Please.”
He had moved from his spot on the bed, and was standing beside me. His hand lightly touched mine; something triggered and I struck out. Alex fell to the floor. I heard gasps, but they were high-pitched and might have been my own.
Fragments of time passed before I struck again, steel-toed boots driving into the body below me. Sturrock tried to lift himself, but after a second kick he stopped struggling and lay still. Three times, four times, five times I lashed out, stopping only when I heard the ribs crack. I dug into my coat and threw the first pill I could find down my throat. Bitter: straitjacket . The night was just starting.
I plundered the medicine cabinet, devouring a handful of painkillers and stowing the rest in my pocket. Pausing to try force the doorman into the oven, I settled for the liberal application of a fancy corkscrew. The night was young, and the horror was loose.
***
Blink.
I spindle-crept from a windowsill. A man was sleeping; he had an attractive jawline, I remember. Two minutes were spent hovering a hair above his face, before his eyes opened. My teeth unsheathed and I pounced.
I shook the body like a ragdoll. When I dropped it, it wasn’t the man anymore: I must have moved on. Tiny, frightened, red-flecked eyes stared into my own before the darkness swept in again. My ears rang from the shrieking.
The ringing intensified. Shots screamed past my head. I wasn’t in the safe zone anymore, and my clothes were drenched in residual person. In my right hand nestled a red rock; in my left, a lock of platinum blonde hair— oh god what have
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