Dance of Ghosts

31

All I could see when I first opened my eyes was a haze of blood-red mist. I wondered for a moment if the blow I’d taken to the back of my head had blinded me, but after a few seconds the mist in my eyes began to clear, and all I could see then was the disarming serenity of Ray Bishop’s face. He was sitting in an armchair in front of me — his legs crossed, his hands joined together in his lap — and I got the feeling that he’d been sitting there for some time, watching me, examining me, studying me. There was no emotion in his slate-grey eyes, just a vague sense of detached curiosity, like a scientist studying a bug.

My vision momentarily blurred again, and when I shook my head to clear the fog, a stabbing pain ripped through the base of my skull. I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut, and when I instinctively reached up to soothe the pain … I realised that I couldn’t move my hand. I opened my eyes and looked down at myself and saw that I was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair with my arms tied behind my back and my feet bound tightly to the legs of the chair.

I struggled uselessly for a second or two, trying to free my hands and feet, but all that did was send another bolt of pain through my head, making me cry out like a baby.

‘Fuck,’ I whispered, closing my eyes again. ‘Fucking hell …’

‘It’s just a mechanism, John,’ I heard Bishop say.

I forced myself to open my eyes and look at him. ‘What?’

‘Pain,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s just a warning mechanism, an evolutionary development that serves to protect the vessel. Pain lets you know when the vessel has been damaged, or is in danger of being damaged. And then, if necessary, the vessel can shut itself down — or shut down the relevant parts — in order for repairs to be made.’ He shrugged. ‘Personally, I think a system of warning lights would be a lot more efficient. A lot less fun, of course. But who the fuck am I to argue with the evolutionary process?’

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

And, more to the point, the red mist had finally cleared from my eyes now, and I was too busy staring at Bridget to listen to what Bishop was saying. She was sitting on the floor behind him, her hands tied to a heavy brass radiator against the wall. Her jaw was reddened and swollen, her face white with shock, and she was crying — the tears streaming silently down her face. I glanced over at Walter, dead on the floor. The blood on his split-open head was already drying, darkening in the matted fur.

‘Bridget?’ I said, looking over at her. ‘Listen to me … Bridget?’

‘There’s no point,’ Bishop said.

I looked at him. ‘What?’

‘She can’t answer you.’

‘Why not?’

He looked over his shoulder at Bridget. ‘We have an agreement, don’t we, dear?’

Bridget glared back at him, her eyes burning with hatred and fear.

Bishop smiled at her, then turned back to me. ‘As long as she doesn’t make a sound, I don’t go over there and cut out her tongue. That’s our agreement.’ He reached down and picked up a carving knife from a coffee table next to the armchair. ‘And so far it seems to be working very nicely.’

I stared at him, knowing full well that he meant what he said — if Bridget spoke, he would go over there and cut out her tongue. And it wouldn’t bother him in the slightest. This man … this middle-aged man sitting calmly in front of me — a picture of banality in a green V-neck jumper, cheap shirt and tie, nylon car coat, and beige cotton trousers — this man was a psychopath, a sadist, a stone-cold killer.

‘How did you get in here?’ I said to him.

‘I’m a ghost, John.’ He grinned. ‘I can float through walls.’

‘What do you want?’

‘What do I want?’ he echoed, shrugging again. ‘No more than anyone else … pleasure, felicity, the fulfilment of my needs and desires … food, water, shelter … survival.’

‘What do you want with me?’ I said.

‘You went through my things,’ he replied, carefully placing the carving knife back on the coffee table. ‘My personal things …’ He shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

I noticed now that my pistol was on the coffee table too. And next to it was a short-handled axe, the blade smeared with blood, which I guessed was Walter’s. Also on the table were two mobile phones — mine and Bridget’s — both of them taken apart, the sim cards removed and snapped in half. I glanced quickly around the room, looking for a landline phone. There was one on the wall to my right, but Bishop had taken care of that too — the cables were ripped out and the phone socket smashed.

‘You should have left me alone, John,’ Bishop said.

‘Look,’ I started to say, turning back to him. ‘There’s no need — ’

‘You saw what I did to that other whore, didn’t you?’

‘Anna Gerrish?’

He nodded. ‘I liked her, so I went easy on her. If you piss me off, I won’t go easy on that one over there.’ He jerked his head, indicating Bridget. ‘I’ll cut the fuck out of her. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at me. ‘You know … I’ve never killed a man before.’

‘Just women.’

‘I always think of them as girls, not women … I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s just the terminology. I mean, woman is such an ugly word, isn’t it? It brings to mind a sense of age, a sense of dullness and desiccation … do you know what I mean?’ He smiled. ‘A woman just doesn’t taste the same as a girl — ’

‘How many have you killed?’

He looked calmly at me. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

‘I’m not — ’

‘Playing for time, keeping me talking … asking me utterly pointless questions. It’s only natural, of course … trying to eke out a few more minutes, a few more seconds of life.’ He looked at me. ‘Everyone does it, you know. No one wants to die, no matter how much pain they’re in or how pitiful their lives are … we’ll all do anything to live another moment or two.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘How many have I killed? You’ll be the twenty-ninth, John. Which means your whore over there will have the honour of being my thirtieth. What do you think about that?’

‘Why do you do it?’ I said.

‘Why does anyone do anything?’

I couldn’t think of an answer to that, so I just carried on staring at him. Of course, he was right — I was just playing for time. What else could I do? Keep him talking, keep on thinking, keep on believing that there had to be something I could do to get us both out of this …

I glanced over at Bridget. She was still crying, and she still looked stricken with shock … but as our eyes met, she edged her arm out from behind her back, letting me see the small lock-knife in her hand. The cords tying her wrist to the radiator had been cut, and as Bridget quickly moved her arm back behind her, I realised that she’d somehow managed to remove her lock-knife from her back pocket and cut herself free.

‘I like it,’ Bishop said.

I looked at him. ‘What?’

‘Killing … I like it. That’s why I do it. Because I like it. Some people like cheese, some people like dancing … I like killing.’ He looked at me. ‘That’s really all there is to it. Satisfied?’

‘Your brother — ’

‘Time’s up,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No more talking.’

‘He knows, doesn’t he? Your brother knows what you do.’

Bishop ignored me, looking down at the coffee table.

I said, ‘He’s been looking after you ever since you burned down your house when you were kids, hasn’t he? Ever since you first started killing. That’s what he does with all his money. He takes care of you, provides for you …’

Bishop picked up the pistol from the coffee table.

‘The police know all about you,’ I said to him. ‘I’ve told them — ’

‘No, you haven’t,’ he said confidently, getting to his feet. ‘The only person who knows about me is that scrawny piece of shit in the hat, the one we put in hospital. And Micky will take care of him. And, besides, no one’s going to find you until the morning anyway, and I’ll be long gone by then.’ He began moving towards me, the pistol in his hand. ‘The house in Long Road will be empty, Joel R Pickton will have disappeared, and John Craine’s body will be found, shot dead — apparently by his own hand — in the same room as the mutilated corpse of Bridget Moran.’ He stopped in front of me, the pistol at his side. ‘And what do you think they’ll find when they search through your pockets, John?’ He nodded. ‘That’s right … a half-moon silver necklace that belonged to Anna Gerrish.’ He raised the pistol and levelled it at my head. ‘Imagine, John … just imagine what they’ll make of that. The man whose wife was raped and murdered … the man who just happened to discover Anna Gerrish’s body … the man whose father — ’

‘Hey, fuck-head,’ Bridget said suddenly from across the room. ‘Why don’t you just shut up and get on with it?’

Bishop froze for a moment, then slowly looked over at her. She hadn’t moved yet, she was still sitting on the floor with her hands behind her back, as if she was still tied to the radiator. Only now, unbelievably, she didn’t look scared or shocked … she just looked utterly disdainful.

‘I mean, Christ, all this talking,’ she said, sneering at him. ‘Yack, yack, yack … it’s just so fucking boring.’

Bishop’s face visibly darkened, as if shadowed by a passing cloud, and as he turned away from me and began heading over to Bridget, I could have sworn that the room got colder. He didn’t hurry, he just walked silently across the room, pausing only to pick up the carving knife from the coffee table. Bridget watched him all the way, her eyes never leaving his, and I knew that she had to be scared to death — she had to be — but there was no sign of fear in her eyes.

Bishop stopped in front of her — the knife in one hand, the pistol in the other — and for a moment or two he just stood there, glaring down at her, his eyes unblinking, his body unnaturally stiff.

‘God,’ Bridget sighed, staring back at him and shaking her head. ‘You really are pathetic, aren’t you?’

His lips drew back over his teeth and an awful hissing sound came from the back of his throat, and just for a moment I thought that she’d left it too late, but just as his body tensed and he raised the knife to strike, she whipped out her hand and buried the lock-knife deep into his thigh. As he let out a shriek and staggered backwards, Bridget jumped to her feet and lunged furiously at him again, stabbing the knife into his belly. He groaned and sank to his knees, dropping the gun and the carving knife from his hands, and then — with a scream of rage — Bridget drove her fist into his face.

‘Bastard!’

And again.

‘Fucking BASTARD!’

And as he toppled over, collapsing to the floor and covering his head with his hands, she just went berserk — kicking him, stomping on his head, punching him, slashing him with the knife … all the time screaming at him like a banshee. ‘YOU! DIRTY! FUCKING! DIRTY! FUCKING! BASTARD!..’

She was killing him.

He’d killed her dog.

She was going to kill him.

And I knew exactly how she felt. He deserved to die, he needed to die … he would die. Just like Anton Viner. But I also knew what killing Bishop would do to her, how it would take something away from her, how it would leave her — like me — with a ruined soul … and she didn’t deserve that.

‘Bridget!’ I called out.

She stamped on Bishop’s head.

‘Bridget!’

She kicked him viciously in the balls.

‘BRIDGET!!’

She paused, momentarily confused, and looked over at me. Her teeth were bared, her hands covered in blood. Her eyes were white and wild.

‘It’s all right,’ I said softly. ‘You can stop now.’

She shook her head. ‘He killed Walter.’

‘I know, but — ’

‘He killed Walter.’

‘Yes, I know. But right now I need you to help me.’

She looked down at Bishop. He was curled up on the floor at her feet, beaten and bloodied, not moving … it was hard to tell if he was alive or not.

‘Bridget?’ I said gently.

She looked back at me, her eyes unfocused.

‘Can you come over here and cut me free?’ I said.

She nodded, but didn’t move.

I smiled at her. ‘Please?’

She started walking towards me, stumbling slightly on the way.

‘It’s OK,’ I said to her. ‘Just take it easy …’

‘I’m all right,’ she muttered, crying now.

‘I know.’

‘I just … he killed …’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘It’s over now … it’s over. I just need you to cut me free, all right? Can you do that?’

She stopped in front of me and looked down at the lock-knife in her hand. She seemed puzzled, as if she couldn’t understand why she was holding it, or why it was covered in blood.

‘Come on, Bridget,’ I said. ‘Please …’

She looked at me, blinking slowly. ‘Yeah, sorry … sorry …’

As she moved round the back of the chair and began cutting the cords from my wrists, I looked over at Bishop. He hadn’t moved. He was still just lying on the floor, a bloodied mess, but I could see now that he was breathing. He was still alive.

I could feel Bridget sawing away at the cords on my wrists.

‘How’s it going?’ I asked her, wincing slightly as the knife nicked my hand.

‘Yeah …’ she muttered. ‘Sorry …’

‘It’s all right. Just keep going.’

I felt one of the cords snap, and then another … and then, at last, my hands were free. As I brought them round in front of me and began rubbing them together, trying to get the blood flowing again, Bridget came round from the back of the chair, crouched down at my feet, and started cutting at the cords round my ankles. There was an unsettling obsession to her movements, a traumatised concentration in her eyes … and I knew she was suffering badly.

I reached out and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.

She flinched.

‘Hey,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s all right. It’s me …’

She hesitated for a moment, then looked up at me. Her face was streaked with blood and tears. ‘He killed Walter, John,’ she said, her voice a broken whisper. ‘He killed Walter …’

I sensed rather than heard the sudden rapid movement behind her, but even as I looked up and saw Bishop lunging towards us, I already knew I was too late. Before I could do anything to stop him, he’d grabbed Bridget by the hair, yanked her away from me, and was dragging her violently across the room. He looked monstrous — soaked in blood, beaten and battered, totally insane — and as he manhandled her across the floor, he was snarling at her like an animal.

‘Fucking bitch … cunt … fucking whore …’

I went after him, throwing myself across the room, but my feet were still tied to the chair and I crashed down heavily to the floor. I quickly scrambled to my knees and reached back to my feet, yanking desperately at the half-cut cords, but they wouldn’t give. I looked across the room and saw that Bishop had stopped by the far wall. He still had hold of Bridget’s hair, and as I started crawling towards them, pulling myself along with my arms, dragging the chair behind me, I saw him lean down and spit in her face.

‘Open your mouth, cunt,’ he hissed at her.

‘Fuck you,’ she said, spitting back at him.

He stared insanely at her for a second, and then — with a savage grunt — he swung her head back and slammed it hard against the wall. The impact was sickening, a shuddering crack of bone on brick, and I watched helplessly as Bridget dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap.

I was still only about halfway across the room, and as Bishop turned away from Bridget and began looking around, I thought he was looking for me. I stopped crawling and stared at him, expecting him to come after me, but when I saw him look my way, his eyes passed over me as if I wasn’t even there. And then I got it. He wasn’t looking for me — he didn’t give a shit about me — he was looking for the carving knife. He wanted to finish off Bridget with the knife. And as his eyes widened and he set off across the room — hunched over, clutching his belly, limping heavily — I knew that he’d found it. I could see the knife too — half hidden behind the settee — and I knew I couldn’t crawl fast enough to stop him getting to it … or to stop him getting back to Bridget with it.

I had to free my legs.

If I didn’t …

I sat up and started pulling frantically at the cords, yanking at the knots … but the cord was made of nylon, the knots too tight … I glanced over my shoulder and saw Bishop bending stiffly to pick up the carving knife. He paused for a moment, stepped behind the settee, and leaned down again to pick up something else. When he straightened up and turned back towards Bridget, I saw that he had the carving knife in one hand and the pistol in the other.

I looked over at Bridget, and just for an instant my mind flashed back to Stacy again … ripped open, butchered, bled white, dead …

And then … I don’t really know what happened. Something inside me just snapped. A howl of rage screamed out of me, erupting from deep down inside, and I put my hands together, raised them above my head, and brought them crashing down on the chair. Wood snapped, and I felt a bone break in my hand, and when I stood up and kicked out at the remains of the broken chair, my feet were suddenly free.

I turned and ran at Bishop.

He’d almost reached Bridget now. He was about two steps away from her, walking awkwardly but deliberately, dragging his wounded leg, and I could see his lips moving as he whispered to himself under his breath. He still seemed oblivious to my presence, but as he started to lean down towards Bridget, moving the knife towards her face, I let out another deafening scream that stopped him in his tracks. He froze for a moment, frowning almost casually, and then — as he turned to look at me — I kicked the knife from his hand and threw myself at him. We both crashed to the floor, and before he had a chance to fight back, I drove my head into his face, breaking his nose, and made a grab for the gun. He tried to wrench his hand away, but he was too weak to put up much of a struggle, and after I’d smashed his hand into the floor a couple of times, he let go of the pistol.

I snatched it up, jammed the barrel into his neck, and manoeuvred myself so that I was sitting on his chest with his arms pinned under my knees.

And now I had him.

He couldn’t move.

He was mine.

I glanced over my shoulder at Bridget. She hadn’t moved since Bishop had smashed her head against the wall — she was still just lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.

‘Bridget?’ I said. ‘Bridget … are you all right?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Bridget? Can you hear me?’

Still no answer.

‘I think she’s fucked,’ Bishop muttered.

I turned back to him and aimed the gun at his head. He looked up weakly at me, blood bubbling from his broken nose, and tried to smile. ‘You’re not going to kill me, John,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got what it takes.’

I stared at him, letting him see the hole in my soul, and when he saw it, recognising it for what it was, he suddenly began to panic.

‘No!’ he spluttered, struggling and squirming. ‘Please don’t — ’

‘Time’s up,’ I heard myself say, my finger tightening on the trigger. ‘No more talking.’

And then the sitting-room door crashed open.