A City Of Shadows by David Dwan - HTML preview

“Jesus!” Alex exclaimed. “The photo, remember? That woman who took your photo, took your details? That woman from out of town?”

Meg chuckled as she examined her friend’s face as he tried to puzzle this out. She climbed down off the car and punched him on the arm.

“Jazz! That chick taking all the pictures. Remember?”

Boom, his face lit up in recognition. “The lottery?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, guess you could call it that,” Alex said.

“I won!”

Meg punched him again and hugged him. “You won!”

She screamed in delight and they both started to jump up and down like excited kids.

“I won! I won!” Jazz shouted along with every jump.

“Yeah, you won,” Alex said and broke up the pair. “Now you have to come with me, now. We can stop off at yours and you can pick up whatever shit you need, but we need to go!”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Jazz said breathlessly.

“You cool?” Alex asked.

Jazz took a breath, held it then exhaled slowly. “Yes, I am cool,” he announced.

“Oh, good for you, man,” Meg said and punched him playfully on the arm again.

“This is amazing,” Jazz said collecting himself somewhat. But then he shouted to the heavens. “Yes!!”

Alex poked him in the chest with her finger.

“Jazz, concentrate,” she said firmly. “You need to get your shit together. It’s important you know what you are getting yourself into.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course... What am I getting myself into?”

Alex let out a soothing breath of her own. Why are all the men in my life such children? She asked herself.

“Truth is, Jazz, I genuinely don’t know. They’ll explain everything once you get to the house you’ll be staying at.”

She paused and made sure he was looking directly at her as she spoke.

“Jazz, you need to make a cogent decision about this. Listen to everything they have to say. Whatever they want, whatever all this is. It’s up to you to agree, or not if you aren’t sure. But above all, you must keep a straight head. No booze, no drugs. Understand?”

“Sure, sure, I can do that,” he assured her. “But I am gonna need a gallon of coffee.”

“Coffee I can do,” she told him. “But we need to get a shift on before Cook has a thrombosis.”

Jazz turned to Meg and Alex couldn’t remember the last time she had seen anyone look so happy. It suited them both.

They hugged warmly.

“You’re so lucky,” Meg said and kissed his cheek.

“Heads up!” Hazmat twin one or maybe two shouted.

A firework exploded over head, just above the three of them, they all cursed, flinched in unison and looked to the skies. A thick rain of blood red powder began to drift down to them.

 

 

TWENTY-ONE

 

“Do you play?” A voice asked from a million miles away. But the question fell on deaf ears.

Jazz clutched his hastily packed holdall to his chest like a shield and just stared at the upright piano set against the wall of the living room.

In times gone by, he would have fair sprinted over to the instrument as soon as he had entered the room and would be banging out a tune before he even realised it.

How could something that had once brought him so much joy, now make him feel like that sickening shock you get from seeing a long-lost love in the arms of another? Watching the way they looked at them, touched them, the way they said they would only ever touch you.

From a distance, like the other day at the show, it was hard, but bearable and of course the booze helped. But up close, like this? It just made him sick.

“You okay?” That soft voice said. Closer now.

Jazz tore his eyes away from the piano and to the woman at his side. She looked about his age, although these days, Jazz found that most people in this city looked at least five years older than they actually were. Especially that old man who looked back at him from the mirror these days.

“Huh?” Was all he could manage.

“I asked if you played,” the woman said a little awkwardly. “I’m Fiona by the way, Fi.”

Jazz’s brain finally caught up with the question.

“Oh, no,” he replied. The tentatively added. “Well, once, a lifetime ago.”

The woman called Fiona, Fi, smiled a little bewildered, but it was warm enough. She looked at the bag clutched to his chest and raised an eyebrow.

“Not stopping?”

He glanced at his knuckles holding the bag, they were white. He relaxed a little and let the bag fall to the floor by its handles.

“Sorry, yeah, I’m staying.”

He held out a hand and she shook it. “Hi Fi, I’m Jazz.”

“Jazz?” She replied as if not hearing him right.

“Yeah, Jazz. I used to be a Jazz musician, before. Well, you know.”

She nodded, all too aware. “You seemed to know the woman who brought us here?”

“Alex? Yeah, we go way back. She’s one of the good ones.”

“She give you any idea what to expect?”

“Nar, not really, just to wait here until they come see us, then they’ll explain what’s going on.”

Jazz couldn’t help his gaze drifting back to the piano as they spoke.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” Fiona said.

“I figure we’ve got nothing to lose in just hearing them out,” Jazz replied absently.

But even as he spoke, he was lost in the smooth, almost

sensuous wooden curves of the piano’s fallboard, which seemed to coyly cover the keys beneath. Whilst also promising sensuous delights if one was brave enough to open it up for a peek.

“Are you sure you don’t want to play?” Fiona asked. Clearly noticing where his attention truly was.

“God no,” Jazz said a little too sharply, he flushed, feeling like he had been caught leering at someone.

“Well, okay,” Fiona said with a hint of disappointment. “But if you change your mind, I’d love to hear you play.”

Jazz shook his head slightly. “I don’t honestly know if I can anymore,” he said softly.

He picked up his bag and turned away from the instrument, which help somewhat.

“Come on, Jazz,” she said emphasising his name. “I’ll show you where you can crash.”

She moved off and gestured for him to follow.

“Sounds good,” Jazz replied and followed. As much to get out of the room and its growing oppressive atmosphere than anything.

“I imagine twenty grand can buy you a ton of piano refresher courses,” Fiona said mischievously over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Jazz replied flatly.

 

Phase one complete, Alex thought as she sat on the top of the steps leading up from the garden to the house's front door.

Five in, Cook, at least for now, slightly less manic than he had been. Now all that remained was to wait for the mysterious ‘woman’ to show up and enlighten everyone to just what the fuck they were all doing here.

Alex took out a cigarette, lit it and took a long satisfying pull and waited for the much-needed kick of nicotine. That was her only real vice. Unlike most of the city and most of her friends. Alex had never felt the need to disappear in a drug fluid haze and sure as shit stayed away from that poison Liquid Lucifer.

Fuck that, she cherished her equilibrium and clarity of thought more than anything to go down that path. It had become something of an obsession over the last few years for her. Due in no small part to the effects drugs and booze had on those close to her. That put her in mind of Nix for a brief moment, but she shut out his face. This was neither the time nor the place.

She was idly watching the tendrils of smoke from her cigarette drifting up to the slate grey heavens, when she heard the front door open behind her but didn’t look around. A moment later the kid Tommy sat down on the stone step next to her.

She nodded in greeting and took another drag.

“Can I pinch one of those?” Tom asked.

“Sure,” Alex replied and lit one for him.

They sat in silence for a while smoking, each lost in their own thoughts.

“It’s getting a little intense in there,” Tom finally said.

“I can imagine, must be weird, not knowing what the hell you’re letting yourselves in for.”

He nodded and took another drag, then tilted his head up and blew smoke rings up into the air.

“Tut, never could do that,” Alex lamented.

“I can show you if...”

He froze mid-sentence as car headlights flashed across the top of the cul-de-sac and a car pulled off the main road and came cruising down towards them.

The car pulled up in front of the house and just sat there for what seemed like an age, until finally a bald man mountain got out of the back.

“Jeez,” Tom uttered.

They watched as the man walked around to the front passenger side and opened the door like a chauffeur, and a woman dressed in a long black coat got out. She looked up at the house and pulled the coat tighter around herself.

“That her?” Alex asked.

“That’s her, I guess,” Tom replied.

“Best go inside,” she told him, and Tom scrambled to his feet and rushed back into the house.

Alex could feel her heart pounding fit to burst as she watched the mis-matched pair come up the garden path toward her.

She could see Cook’s silhouette in the driver’s seat, but the man was just staring straight ahead and clearly had no intention of getting out. As the two reached her, Alex was in two minds whether to stand and say something or just stay seated and quiet.

She decided on the latter and just stared at her boots as they walked past and into the house. The door shut gently behind her, and she finally remembered to breathe. Much to her surprise, Alex smelt summer flowers in their wake.

“And so, begins phase two,” she whispered to herself.

 

 

TWENTY-TWO

 

The man staring back at Cook was a troubled, scared soul. And he had seen that look many, many times before.

The catch? This time he was looking at his own reflection in the window of the café as he sat alone. He might have been staring at himself for hours for all he knew. He had come straight here after dropping the pair back off at their house once the meeting with the five was over. Desperate as he was for some semblance of normality to anchor himself to. If such a thing were possible lately.

Cook wasn’t a man who liked the company of others, unless he was paying for it. That way there was never any misunderstanding about what that meant. But as he sat here alone with his own tortured thoughts, he felt, for the first time he could remember, the need for normal human contact.

So much so, although it seemed ludicrous to him now. Cook had actually thought about returning to the house occupied by Alex and the five, under some pretence or other, just to hang out. But of course, that was lunacy. What would they do? Play cards? Swap jokes?

People didn’t like him, and he didn’t like them and that was fine. It had just been a moment of weakness, this whole affair had knocked his equilibrium off kilter more than it should have. No, this was his life, sat alone with his haunted thoughts. With only a half-drunk bottle of whiskey for company. That and the loaded revolver laid on the table next to it.

Cook looked intently at his reflected eyes in the window as if he were staring into the eyes of an opponent in a game of Russian roulette. He spun the pistol on the table for the third time tonight, much the way kids would play spin the bottle. And was seriously contemplating shooting himself in the head if its barrel ever stopped pointing at him. But for better or worse it hadn’t yet.

The pistol stopped spinning with the grip pointing at him. Better luck next time he thought grimly. He took a long pull on the bottle and gasped as the harsh liquor burnt the back of his throat. It went someway to washing away the desire to spin the pistol again. So in lieu of suicide he ran through tonight’s events in his head and what would come next.

The briefing, or whatever the fuck it was had seemed to take Misha hours at the house, but in reality, he was only sat on his own outside in the car for half an hour tops. The five lucky winners, not to anyone’s surprise had all agreed to whatever terms she had laid out.

So now, it was over to Alex for the next stage. Cook was more thankful than ever that he had recruited her for the babysitting gig. Not only because she was reliable, but more importantly to him. This would mean that he would hopefully not need to deal with anything else until the final payments were made, and that fucked up trio got the hell out of his city.

As a result of the successful sales pitch, the drive back post meeting to drop the pair back at their house again, had been palpably less tense than the drive over. The sometimes-cryptic conversation he’d had with the woman as they drove back still preyed a little on his fevered mind.

 

“Can the woman be trusted?” Misha had asked after they had been driving in silence for a good few miles.

“Alex? Sure.”

“Good.”

Cook couldn’t help but keep glancing in his rear-view mirror at the brick shit house sitting in the back seat. But the man never once looked his way, he just stared out of the side window watching the world blur by, which was fine by him.

“The initial procedure itself will take a few hours to complete,” Misha said. “I think it’s best this Alex waits outside in the car for them.”

“Whatever you think’s best,” Cook replied. Thankful it would be Alex and not him.

“They will be sedated,” she continued. “For their own protection. The procedure, whilst being quite safe in itself, can be somewhat distressing for the participant. This will help them through it, and their emotional state afterwards.”

She fell silent and Cook could almost feel the nervousness radiating off her as she talked about what was to come. It was strange to see her so vulnerable when she was normally so confident and in control. It was as if she was expecting everything to unravel the closer she got to her goal. Whatever the hell that was.

“Now you must remember,” she said after a while. “Once they are back at the house afterwards, your colleague must watch them closely in the hours after the procedure.”

Procedure! Procedure! Cook let his mind wander at just what that meant, but all the scenarios he came up with didn’t bear thinking about too much, not with his warped imagination.

“There can be... On very rare occasions,” Misha added. “A negative reaction to it. We have a lot invested in this, mister Cook. If that happens, we must be informed immediately.”

“Understood.”

“We cannot afford any, any incidents, before we complete things.”

“Of course,” Cook replied. “How long until you’ll need them back at yours?”

“As long as it takes,” Misha replied a little testily. Then she seemed to check herself. “It can vary,” she said more evenly now. “I will continue to check on their progress until I’m sure the procedure has taken. That’s when we will require them back at our house for the final stage.”

“Okay, no problem.”

Cook paused, there had been something nagging at him about the five. “What happens to them after all this is over?” He asked.

Misha moved to answer then stopped herself. She looked out of the side window, perhaps looking for the answer out there in the night. And Cook realised that she had been asked that exact question many times before.

“As I’ve said before. No one needs to get hurt during all this.”

It was odd, but it sounded almost like a plea to Cook.

“Once all is complete,” she continued. “They can go on their way, safe, with payment and our thanks. As can you, mister Cook.”

Cook knew things were rarely that simple but didn’t say so. “Fair enough,” he finally replied.

“Any more questions?” This time it sounded almost like a threat.

“No.”

“Correct answer.”

 

Cook contemplated the bottle and the pistol on the table in front of him. If used correctly, they could both end in oblivion. Just one was more permanent than the other.

The sound of rain clattering against the café window drew his attention back to his reflection. He looked at his twin in the glass, the rain running down the window distorted his refection.

It took him a moment to realise it, but it made him look like one of those skewed and disfigured faces in the photographs back at the house.

“Time for another spin,” he told it.

 

 

TWENTY-THREE

 

She knew it was mostly psychological, brought on in no small part by the drive over here, but as Alex waited alone in the minibus outside that strange woman’s house. She felt like the whole building was radiating a cold dark fear.

It seemed ordinary enough from the outside, despite being the last one standing in a sea of rubble. But there was something just, off about the place.

What didn’t help of course was that blacked out coach parked around back. Christ only knew why that was there.

Alex turned the heater up full but just couldn’t get warm. Her mind refusing to calm as it raced to conjure up what might be happening to the five in the house. But she had the horrible feeling it was far worse than even her imagination could picture.

The feeling of dread had started way before they had even set off. It had begun last night after the woman and her, bodyguard? Had left.

 

She had gone back inside to check on the five, but all of them had retired to their rooms, so she had been left to rattle around the place and had to fight the urge to go upstairs and quiz Jazz on what had happened.

She knew she was forbidden to get involved, and that her role was strictly silent babysitter, but still, Jazz was her friend, and despite her pep talk back at the car park about listening and thinking carefully about what they wanted from him. She knew Jazz and knew he would have zoned out after the words ‘twenty grand,’ had been uttered.

After she had paced the ground floor a dozen times, having an internal pros and cons debate with herself. And for as much her own sanity as anything else. Alex crept up the stairs like a thief and once she was on the next floor she went over to Jazz’s door.

She moved to knock but could hear voices coming from inside. Suddenly she felt like a spy and was about to move away and return downstairs when he heard what sounded like young Tom let out a short cry of anguish which chilled her to the bone.

This was followed by what sounded like the others offering what sounded like words of comfort judging by their tone, but try as she might, she couldn’t make out a word.

Whatever was happening in there, Alex knew she had no part in it. They were a group now, bonded by this shared fate they had all agreed to. And as such all she could do was watch things unfold from the sidelines. So, she reluctantly left them to it.

 

The sense of foreboding had only intensified this morning when the five had drifted down for breakfast. They looked distant, almost like automatons as they went through the motions of eating and preparing for the day ahead.

Alex had left them to it but just as it was time to leave for the other house, she caught sight of the five, in the living room. They were all huddled together with their arms around each other’s shoulders like a football team talk. Despite having only known each other for a short period of time, the camaraderie was palpable between them. Bound as they were by a common fate.

She felt suddenly self-conscious, like someone eavesdropping on a profound moment and had briskly left the house and waited for them in the minibus.

Finally, after ten minutes or so, they came out of the house and one by one silently got inside.

Jazz was the last, he paused by her open window before getting in. “We all agreed,” he told her, his voice was hollow. “We know what this is.”

Her stomach tightened. “Agreed to what, Jazz?”

“Can’t say, but it’s okay, we’re at peace with everything they have asked.”

“Jazz?”

But he gave her a weak smile and got into the back.

The drive over to the house felt like taking five condemned convicts to the gallows.

 

So here she sat, waiting for what seemed like an eternity for the five that went in to come out again. What would they be like after? She dreaded to think.

Alex took her phone out and selected a number. She needed a familiar friendly voice to distract her, or she felt she would go nuts. She hit dial and waited for it to connect.

She cursed as it just rang and rang, then she remembered the time, it was hellish early, too early for most people to be up and about. She was about to disconnect the call when a familiar voice answered.

“Hello?”

Alex realised she was using the burner phone Cook had given her especially for this gig, so no caller ID would have come up.

“Evie, it’s me, Alex.”

“Hey Alex,” Evie replied brightly.

“Christ, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was so early.”

Evie chuckled at this. “I’ve got a seven-year-old remember? I’ve been up for ages.”

Despite her reason for calling, Alex felt a wave of melancholy sweep over her at hearing her friend’s voice. It seemed so far away from where she was emotionally as well as physically. Evie was a rock, always had been. Alex fancied herself as a strong person living in the violent world she had chosen. But Evie, with everything going on in her life was next level.

“Alex?” Evie said.

Then Alex realised she had been silent on the other end, lost in her own thoughts.

“Shit, Evie, sorry,” she said. “Just checking in. So, how is he?”

“Actually, believe it or not, I think you might have shocked some sense into that thick skull of his,” she replied with a chortle.

“He stayed here for a couple of days after the hospital,” Evie continued. “But he was driving me crazy, so I kicked him out. He’s back home I think.”

“I can imagine, and that’s good to hear,” Alex said, genuinely glad.

“You okay, kid? You sound a bit down.” Evie asked, ever the empath.

“Yeah, just thinking too much,” Alex replied. “Just needed to hear a friendly voice.”

“We aim to please,” Evie replied.

Alex smiled to herself, she felt that melancholic feeling drifting away like so much smoke from a bonfire of self-pity.

“How’s the whole photo thing going?” Evie asked.

That soured her mood a little but not enough to bring her back down. Alex didn’t even know it was common knowledge she was involved. But that was the city grape vine for you.

“Weird,” she replied truthfully. “I’m just waiting for them now. Oh! Did you hear, Jazz got picked?”

“He did? Lucky bastard.”

Alex wasn’t so sure about that but kept it to herself.

“What is it anyway?” Evie asked.

“Still have no clue.”

“I was gutted I didn’t get picked,” Evie confessed.

“Don’t be,” Alex replied a little too fast. Then. “Sorry, don’t take this the wrong way, Evie, but I’m glad you didn’t get picked.”

“Thank you?” Evie said sarcastically.

“No, c’mon, you know what I mean. It’s just all so fucking weird. Something’s off with the whole thing, dunno what exactly, but believe me, you’re better off out of it.”

“Twenty grand can make a lot of bad things good,” Evie pointed out.

“True,” Alex had to admit. But at what cost?

She heard voices over at the house and turned to see the woman standing in the doorway, she looked drawn and exhausted as she spoke to someone Alex couldn’t see inside.

“Shit, gotta go, Evie,” she said.

“Oh, okay,” Evie replied. “We should meet up when you’ve time. Milly would love to see you, and we can split a bottle of wine and have a good long chat.”

“I’d like that,” Alex agreed.

Over at the door, the woman was saying her goodbyes as the first of the five emerged from inside. Then one by one they all came slowly out into the murky early morning light.

Alex sucked in a lungful of air as the procession made its way down to where she was parked. They looked terrible, gaunt, pale, their faces blank. Each staring straight ahead, their eyelids heavy, which put Alex in mind of five sleepwalkers ambling towards her.

“Jesus, Christ,” she uttered. Forgetting she was still on the phone.

“Al’, you okay?” Evie asked.

“Oh, Evie, yeah sorry, gotta go,” she replied, flustered.

“Sure, hey, give Jazz a hug from me, will you?”

Alex looked at Jazz as he approached, and she went cold.

“Will do,” Alex replied absently, then added. “Punch Nix in the kneecap for me, will you?”

Evie laughed at this, but the bright musicality to it sounded utterly alien to what she was witnessing shambling towards her.

“My pleasure,” Evie responded cheerfully.

Alex hung up and had to drag herself out of the vehicle against every fibre of her being which was screaming at her to just drive off.

Lucy was first, her head bowed slightly as she shuffled over to Alex.

“Lucy, you okay?” Alex asked, her throat dry.

But the other woman just looked up at her, almost in slow motion. Their eyes met and Alex had to bite her lip. Lucy’s eyes were unfocused, unseeing like a blind woman.

She helped her get awkwardly into the back of the minibus. Alex caught her arm and recoiled, her flesh was ice cold to the touch.

She looked past the others to the woman on the doorstep. Her arms were folded, her brow knitted in concern and Alex had to fight the urge to scream at her. ‘What have you done to them!?’ But she managed to control the impulse.

The woman, as if sensing what she was thinking locked eyes with her. And Alex was surprised to see compassion in them which caught her off guard. It was the woman who looked away first.

Alex helped each of the others into the back, being as gentle as she could, but yet was unable to look at any of them too closely, walking corpses that they were. She had expected to be a babysitter, not a carer.

Then she remembered what Cook had told her earlier. They would be sedated for whatever procedure they had undergone. Still, this did little to moderate her unease. Just under sedation, she told herself, just under sedation.

Jazz was the last, he trudged up to her and stopped, his chin nearly on his chest. Alex instinctively took his hand and was surprised to feel that unlike Lucy’s it was warm to the touch.

“Jazz...”

He raised his head with great effort as if it weighed a ton and looked directly at her. But there was no recognition at all.

“Christ...” She whispered. “Jazz, what have they done to you?”

Alex left tears threaten but held them at bay and cleared her throat. She carefully helped her friend into the minibus, like you would with a man in his nineties. And that was when she noticed something under his t-shirt.

She looked closer. It appeared to be a square surgical dressing, taped to his back, just under his left shoulder blade. She moved to touch it.

“Do not touch that!” The woman shouted with surprising power and volume.

So much so that Alex wheeled around to face her, half expecting the woman to be standing right behind her. But she was still in the doorway glaring at her. The man mountain appeared behind her as if for emphasis. Then the woman seemed to check herself somewhat.

“I’m sorry, but it is imperative you leave their dressings alone. No matter what. I will be along later to check on them.”

Alex held her gaze as long as she could, but this time she was the one who looked away first. She turned and helped Jazz, who had been stood frozen, half in half out, the rest of the away into the minibus and slid the door closed.

Once it was secured, she rushed around to the driver’s side.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the woman called out. “They will be quite alright.”

Alex didn’t respond and climbed into the driver’s seat and set off. She glanced in her rearview mirror at the five in the back. She noticed that despite their near catatonic state they were all leaning forwards slightly so as not to rest their backs on the seat.

As she drove, the smell of surgical spirits accompanied by an oddly sweet odour she couldn’t name filled the vehicle. Despite the cold, she opened the window, but it seemed to cling to everything. It wasn’t unpleasant, which she was glad of, as she had the feeling it was a smell she would have to live with for the next few days.

 

Misha closed the front door and leant against it. She rubbed the beginning of tears from her tired eyes. That wouldn’t do anyone any good she told herself.

Tiny was still loitering in the hallway, he came forwards and put a giant hand on her shoulder. She looked at him and he smiled wearily. She exhaled and returned the smile as best she could. He mimed drinking tea.

“Oh, yes, please, see if the others would like some too,” she said gratefully. “It’s been a long morning for everyone.”

He nodded, then his face grew serious. He pointed to the ceiling, and she instantly knew what he meant. The boy, restless as ever was on the move up there.

 

When Misha poked her head around the boy’s bedroom door, she already knew it would be empty. He had been on the edge for a while now, which she understood, and he was starting to get that belligerent air about him again and she couldn’t blame him. This was worse for him, than anyone.

She found him in the room with the remaining photographs pinned to the walls. He was at the table looking at the untreated photos of the five she had picked. She watched him silently from the doorway as he picked up each in turn and studied the faces there. Perhaps he was wondering what their lives had been like before they had encountered us.

He was dressed in his long white nightshirt, which he had refused to change for days. She knew it hurt his back to remove it, so she hadn’t pressed him too hard on it. He looked so frail standing there and she noticed he was using his free hand to brace himself against the table.

“And what are you doing up and about?” She asked.

He gave her a brief look then returned to the photographs.

“I had to get up, just for a bit. I’m beginning to smell.”

She came into the room but knew well enough to keep her distance.

“No you’re not,” she reassured him. “It’s just your imagination.”

“I’m rotting away,” he replied and ran his fingers of the photograph of Fiona.

“Don’t talk like that,” she told him. “You’ll be back to normal soon enough. Things went very well.”

“Normal?” He said with distain.

She desperately wanted to go to him to hug him. To tell him everything would be okay. But she stopped herself, knowing all too well what his reaction would be.

“How many times have we played out this exact same scene?” He suddenly said.

“Look, why don’t you come downstairs, Tiny can whip you up some breakfast,” she said changing the subject.

He brightened a little at this. “Yes, I would like that,” he said and picked up another photo.

“Come away from there,” she chided. She knew nothing good would come from dwelling on them.

“What are their names?” He asked and put the photo back with the others.

“Don’t start with that. They are no one,” her tone was harsh, but it needed to be.

He finally turned to face her. “Everyone is someone,” he said plainly.

“Who they are is no concern of yours.” she snapped.

Misha hated being so stern with the boy, but she was tired, and her head was pounding. And this self-flagellation from him was the last thing she needed. He understood all this was necessary, they all did. Like it or not, it was the way of things.

“We’ll be away from here in a few days,” she said in a lighter tone.

He just stared at her with heavy lidded eyes.

“I sometimes wonder if I’m worth all this,” he said and waved his hand taking in the room and the many photographs surrounding him.

Misha moved closer and gently touch his arm. She could feel his slight frame tremble under her touch.

“I would sacrifice a thousand of them,” she told him. “More if that’s what it takes.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he replied faintly.

“Come on, you’ll feel better after having something to eat.

Again, resisting the urge to embrace him, she took him by the hand and led him from the room and the sea of faces it contained.

 

 

TWENTY-FOUR

 

Home delivery! Alex shook her head at the thought, as she watched the delivery van drive away from the house, leaving three large boxes of groceries by the garden gate.

It had been two days since she had collected the five from the other house and despite the fact they still had plenty of food, (the others had hardly eaten anything in that time) the delivery had turned up, unbidden, courteously of Cook no doubt in lieu of his continued absence from the scene.

It was a luxury she could get used to. In the city centre shopping was a task that could easily leave you battered and bruised, as you fought with other poor saps for the best produce. That was of course unless you knew the best black-market locations and could pay a lot more for the convenience of it.

“Enjoy it while you can,” she said out loud.

She picked up one of the boxes and was surprised how heavy it was. She caught the scent of fresh fruit and breathed it in gratefully. Her stomach growled its approval and her mood lifted somewhat. But this soured a little as she turned and began towards the house and the reality of what was inside.

“Snap out of it,” was she really talking out loud so much these days?

This was due she knew in no small part to the monosyllabic responses she could expect from the five. Still, she told herself, in her head this time. To make the best of things out here in the relative calm of the city outskirts. Because she knew, soon enough she would be back in the belly of the beast with all the other plebs.

When Alex got into the kitchen, Fiona was sitting at the table, just staring off blankly into space. Alex put the box on the counter by the sink and leant back against it.

“They deliver out here, can you believe it?” She said brightly but didn’t get even a flicker of recognition from the woman.

“Where I’m from, you’d have to kill two old ladies just to get a tin of beans,” Alex tried again.

Still nothing. She then made great play of taking out a bag of apples from the box and putting them on the table. More than anything so she could get a better look at Fiona’s back. And sure enough, Alex could see through the material that she too had a surgical bandage on it, identical to Jazz’s only hers was under her right shoulder blade.

“Must have hurt like hell, huh?” She asked. “Whatever it was they did to you in there?”

Still no response, and Alex had to fight the urge to prod at the dressing. She moved away to get the rest of the groceries from outside before some fucker pinched them.

“You shouldn’t kill old ladies,” Fiona said softly from behind her.

Alex spun around but was disappointed to see her gaze was still frozen on some unseen infinity. She sat down opposite her, eager to press this small breakthrough.

“What happened in there?” She asked. Searching the woman’s face for any sign of recognition.

At first there was nothing but that blank look, then a flicker of movement in her face.

“Fi, what happened to you?” She prompted gently.

With seemingly great effort, Fiona stiffly turned her head to face Alex. Her expression was still unnervingly blank, her eyes unfocused.

“I... I don’t remember,” she said haltingly.

Encouraged by this, Alex drew closer. “Did they hurt you?”

“Don’t think so,” she replied, her voice monotone.

“I’m guessing you all have bandages like that on your backs. Who did that?”

Finally, a tangible flicker of emotion crossed her face. She seemed to be trying to remember. Her brow knotted ever so slightly.

C’mon! C’mon, Alex silently urged her, not wanting to break the spell. Remember!

Then Alex almost gasped out loud as a look of absolute horror flashed across Fiona’s ashen face.

“Oh, oh, no, no,” she gasped.

She gave a little shake of her head as if trying to dislodge whatever terror she had recalled. Then, as quickly as it had come, her face melted back into that same vacant state an instant later.

“Fi? Fi?” Alex urged. But she was sitting next to a zombie once more.

 

Buoyed by this slight breakthrough with Fiona, Alex decided to take a chance and see what she could glean from the others, anything that would help her have a better understanding of what was actually going on here.

But she knew she needed to be subtle so as not to exacerbate their already fragile condition. The woman, Misha would pick up on that straight away.

Once upstairs, Alex noticed the door to Tom’s room was slightly ajar, so she peered in through the gap. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, bolt upright, looking blankly out of the window like a man waiting for something.

She thought about saying something, but it seemed like such a private moment, she was loathed to intrude.

She knocked on the next door, which was Clarke’s room. Getting no response, she knocked again a little harder but still nothing.

But this time curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the door a little, under the guise of checking up on him. He was laid on his side on his bed, over the covers with his back to her.

“Clarke? You okay, mate?” She asked. Her voice sounded unnervingly loud as it cut through the pin drop silence of the room.

He didn’t respond, but she could hear he was whispering something to himself. She took a couple of tentative steps into the room and listened.

“Twenty grand, twenty grand.” Over and over.

Alex could see he was shaking despite the heat being on full blast in the room. And with a growing sense of unease, she came back out of the room and shut the door behind her. It was like living in a house full of ghosts.

She stood on the landing and debated whether to try Lucy, but she couldn’t imagine she would be any different. That left Jazz, who despite his condition was the only one she felt even remotely comfortable around.

She moved off down the landing towards Jazz’s room at the end. She was about to knock when a shriek coming from one of the other rooms nearly stopped her heart.

Alex cried out in shock, it had come from Lucy’s room, so she sprinted back down and entered her room without knocking.

“Lucy!” She hollered as she came inside and braced herself for what she might see.

The woman didn’t react at all as Alex barrelled inside. She was sat in front of her dresser, just staring at her reflection in the mirror as she methodically brushed her hair as though nothing had happened.

“Lucy?” Alex asked tentatively, breathing hard. “You okay?” But got no reply.

She must have stood there for a full minute waiting for any kind of reaction. But Lucy just continued robotically brushing her hair.

“Fuck’s sake,” Alex hissed through her teeth.

“One must look ones best,” Lucy suddenly said without looking around. And just carried on brushing, brushing.

Alex spun around and stormed out of the room, stifling a scream of frustration. This was fucking lunacy, and she feared it was catching.

Seething, she stormed down the landing but stopped at the top of the stairs. And before she could change her mind, she took out her phone and selected a number. She was frustrated and mad as hell and needed to vent and to hell with the consequences.

“Alex?” Cook answered warily.

“Cook, what the fuck is going on here?” She ranted. “Answer me straight or I fucking walk.”

“Whoa, wait a second, what are you talking about? What’s happening?”

“I’m living in a fucking lunatic asylum, that’s what’s happening.”

“Alex, calm down, is everything okay with them?”

“No, everything is not okay!”

She was on a roll now and it felt good. It was only tempered slightly by who she was actually speaking to. But even Cook’s reputation had seemed diminished over the last few days. Seeing fear in someone so feared would do that.

“It’s like somnambulists anonymous here.” She took a breath, trying to remain as coherent as possible. “Tell me straight,” she added a little calmer. “What did they do to them in that house?”

“I’ve told you, it’s none of your fucking business. Just keep an eye on them, make sure they are okay...”

“Okay!?” She snapped. “They are a bunch of fucking zombies, they’ve all got this dressing on their backs...”

“That’s enough!” Cook said with a finality that brought her back down to earth.

She came to her senses somewhat at his tone, this was Cooky the maniac she was speaking to, and she needed to remember that.

‘Fuck!’ She mouthed managing not to say it out loud.

“Listen, just do your fucking job and keep your nose out,” Cook told her. “This’ll all be over soon enough. And the last thing I need is your bullshit.”

Alex covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “You fucking asshole!” She screamed at it, then uncovered it again.

“This isn’t right, Cook,” she said keeping her voice even. “There’s some voodoo shit going on here.”

“Have a word with yourself,” he said sarcastically. “And just do what I’m paying you for.”

“You know,” Alex said before she could check herself. “I haven’t seen you around here since they came back from that fucking house. Scared?”

She instantly regretted it, but fuck it, she’d said it. There was a long pause, and she would have thought he had hung up if it wasn’t for his low ragged breathing on the other end.

“Terrified,” he finally replied.

He paused as if letting that sink in and all Alex could do was stare at her phone dumbfounded.

“But,” Cook continued after an age. “For my sins, I’ve been told to come over later with the woman to check on them. So don’t fucking lose anyone.”

The phone went dead. “Fuck me,” Alex uttered in shock.

 

Alex spent the rest of the day doing her best to lose herself in the mundane. Any simple task would do to distract her from this morning’s events. Most of all Cook’s confession.

What she most wanted to do was get away from the house, even for an hour or two, but she just couldn’t risk it. Besides, she couldn’t guarantee she would be able to make herself come back here if she did.

So, she had tidied the place from top to bottom, even though it was already spotless. Or at least all the rooms not occupied by the five.

By mid-afternoon, they were all back in their rooms again after the pointless exercise of Alex trying to get them to eat something. But still their presence up there hung heavy in the air, like a pending storm moving ever closer.

 

Alex had been sitting on the top step by the front door for a good hour, chain smoking herself half to death and watching the sunless sky slowly darken with the onset of evening.

She had left the door open so she could hear the odd footfall from inside as one or other of them would periodically slog downstairs in search of a drink and just to pace around, which she noted they were doing more and more as the day wore on.

“Shit.” She reached for another cigarette, but the pack was empty.

That was all she needed. She crumpled up the pack and threw it into the garden.

“Jazz is gone.”

Alex started in shock and turned with a curse to see Lucy standing behind her in the doorway. She was looking off into the distance, a sheen of sweat covered her listless face. Her once pale cheeks were now flushed with fever.

It took Alex a moment to compose herself, then she got to her feet. “Christ, Lucy...” Then she was hit with what the woman had actually said. “What!?” She exclaimed.

“Where are we?” Lucy asked vacantly as she scanned her surroundings.

Alex jumped up and grabbed Lucy by the shoulders, and her languid gaze finally fell on her. “Lucy, what about Jazz?” She asked flustered.

“Gone.”

“Gone, what do you mean, gone?”

“Gone,” she repeated plainly.

“Christ, sake!” Alex pushed past her and raced up the stairs.

She sprinted along the landing and barged into Jazz’s room. It was empty.

“No, no, no.” She came back out. “Has anyone seen Jazz?” She shouted but didn’t get a response.

She went to the nearest room without knocking. Tom’s room, it was also empty. “Fuck, not him too!”

Next Clarke’s, she poked her head around the door. He was laid on his side staring at the wall. He didn’t even register the intrusion.

“Clarke, have you seen Jazz or Tom?” Nothing but the steady rise and fall of his chest.

She flung open the door to Fiona’s room. The woman was just standing there in the middle of the room. She turned haltingly when Alex came inside and swayed like she was drunk. And Alex knew it was pointless asking her anything in that state.

Then Alex came back downstairs in a blind panic, taking them two at a time, she saw Lucy, still standing in the doorway looking out into the world beyond. She pulled her roughly back inside and closed the door. The last thing she needed was to lose another. Then she ran down the hall to the living room. The door was open, but no one was inside.

“Jazz?” She called out redundantly, then ran through to the kitchen.

Tom was sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee as if for warmth.

“Tom, thank Christ! Have you seen Jazz?” She was shocked at the edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. “Tom!?”

The young man slowly turned to face her like he had all the time in the world. Alex flinched at the look of utter anguish in his blood shot eyes. He shook his head no.

“Oh, God,” she frantically looked around her, fighting back tears of frustration and panic.

There was a door in the kitchen that led out into a small walled garden out back. She slammed against it and fumbled with the lock, her fingers suddenly seeming two sizes too big.

After a maddeningly long struggle she was able to unlock it. The door’s hinges screamed in protest as she pulled it open, it had clearly not been opened for quite some time.

The cool air hit her hard as she stumbled into the flag stoned back yard. And it took her a moment to catch her breath against it. She didn’t need to look around, it was clear she was alone out here.

“Jazz!!” She screamed into the evening air.

 

 

TWENTY-FIVE

 

Jaaazzzzz... I know that name the hider thought absently. He drew his knees up under his chin and held his breath and felt like a child playing hide and seek.

He chuckled silently to himself, it was such a simple hiding place, but no one had thought to look for him behind the open door of the living room, where he was sat wedged in the gap between the door and the wall.

He had awoken from a terrible nightmare that still clung resolutely to his subconscious filling him with a feeling of vague dread. The next thing he knew he was hiding here. He had been called to the room by the piano, that much was clear to him, even in this twilight state he found himself in.

It was a strange juxtaposition of emotions, seeing the instrument made him feel at once nauseous, yet it also gave him a distant feeling of hope. It was as if the thing was some noxious medicine he would have to take to get better. To chase away the wheezing monster that had haunted his dream.

“Jazz!” That familiar voice cried out again.

Then he remembered its owner. Of course, Alex and with that it all came flooding back to him now. Jazz, that was his name, or at least the name he went by these days. Yet even thought he could hear the fear in his friend’s voice, he had no desire to show himself.

That would have to wait until the nightmare was banished for good. He could feel it, even now lurking at the back of his mind, waiting there for sleep to overtake him again. So that it could emerge from the shadows once more.

“Well, fuck that,” Jazz whispered to it.

He reached into his back pocket and took out the half bottle of vodka he had smuggled in. He took a small sip, just a little to take the edge off he told himself. He gasped, feeling that familiar jolt of warmth and energy strong alcohol always gave him.

He peeped around the door to look at the piano across the room. Tears welled in his wide eyes, how could something that had brought him so much joy and solace over the years, also cause him so much pain. He desperately wanted to go over and play it, but his fear was physically holding him back. What if he had forgotten how to play?

Jazz cursed under his breath and lent back against the wall. A sharp pain shot through his left shoulder, and he bit back a cry and pulled away.

He concentrated as best he could on trying to picture what had happened to him at the other house, and how he had gotten the wound on his back. The alcohol was now coursing through his veins, and he knew from past experience that could either be a help or a hindrance to his recollection and only time would tell which.

He pulled up his t-shirt and tried to awkwardly prod the bandage on his back by reaching over his left shoulder with his right arm.

A flash of pain lit up every nerve ending in his body, shocking him into a dream like state. He was conscious his physical being was still in the room, but his mind had moved off at lightning speed back to that cold dark basement somewhere, perhaps in hell.

A distant memory, buried deep in his subconscious suddenly bloomed into an almost tactile reality. He was sitting, stripped to the waist on a simple wooden chair in a dark, dank cellar. He could smell the mildewed air around him, and something more, something sweet. A hand gently touched his shoulder, and he was aware of someone close.

“Sssh, remember what I promised,” it was that nice if strange woman, Misha.

He couldn’t see her but could feel her breath on his face as she whispered into his ear.

“This will all seem like a distant dream,” she whispered to him. “And that too will fade in time. You will forget everything soon enough.”

He glanced over his shoulder and could see the dim outline of a stone archway behind him, its centre pitch black, but there was something in the darkness beyond. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear a terrible rasping, wheezing sound drifting down towards him. It seemed to fill the cellar as whatever was making the sickening sound came closer.

Ice cold panic now as the merest hint of a figure began to melt out of the darkness.

“Don’t look,” Misha whispered.

He returned his gaze to the front, not needing to be told twice. And concentrated on the plain brick wall ahead.

Misha had promised them all that they would not remember, yet here it was. Some unseen pretence of humanity coming closer and closer still...

 

Jazz pulled his hand away from the bandage as if it were white hot and he was pulled back into his own body, into the here and now once more. He remembered being told by Misha over and over. Don’t touch the dressing.

“Don’t touch the dressing,” he whispered. What was underneath was precious beyond imagination.

He waited for his uneven breathing to return to normal as he sat there. He could feel tears pouring down his cheeks but just didn’t care. Finally, thankfully the residual memory began to fade, and he thanked Christ for it. He took another drink, to chase it further away.

He wasn’t supposed to remember any of it. That had been part of the deal. He eventually wiped his eyes to clear his vision and he glanced down at the bottle in his hand.

Jazz smiled to himself. Good old alcohol, it could take you away from reality when things were at their worst. So, he supposed it stood to reason that it could also unlock those hidden memories deep within you. Those you weren’t supposed to remember.

Probably best to throw the rest away, he thought. But the nightmare, which had seemed so lucid moments ago, was all but gone from his tortured psyche. Its power diminished to a nonsense now. And that was something he couldn’t ignore. He hadn’t felt this alive and in control in forever.

“What harm could it do?” He asked himself. Probably a lot! Came the reply from the dark recesses of his brain.

That only meant one thing.

“Cheers,” Jazz saluted the air with the bottle and took another drink.

 

The sound of blood rushing through his ears gradually began to subside as the alcohol took greater effect. But Jazz became acutely aware that the sensation was different this time. As if the booze had been cut with something else, something already coursing through his veins.

A stab of fear hit him in the guts. What if the vodka was having some sort of reaction to the sedative, they had all been given? Or was it something more? Something else to do with the wound on his back seeping into his blood stream?

What had that nightmare figure from the darkness done to him? He tried to remember, but this time his brain refused to give up the memory.

Then, before any panic could take a hold, Jazz felt a strange but not uncomfortable feeling come over him. He could clearly hear his heart beating in his chest, but it was an irregular rhythm. The rush of blood in his ears had now faded to nothing, replaced by the beat, beat... Beating of his heart.

It was thumping out a cadence he had heard before. Like the beat of a bass drum laying down the backbeat to a half-remembered tune. Jazz closed his eyes, concentrating.

A lilting melody, faltering at first as it adjusted to the beat, but growing in strength and timing as he listened, seemed to fill the room. It was a tune he knew from a different life. A tune he could have, once upon a time, play blindfolded despite its growing intricacies.

Jazz opened his eyes to see that his hands were miming playing the piano on the carpet in front of him. Every finger movement in perfect sync with the melody flooding his senses. He choked back a sob and flexed his fingers, he looked at them in wonder.

He got to his feet and slipped the bottle into the back pocket of his jeans, then half-drifted, half shuffled over to the piano. He ran his hands over the smooth woodwork and before he realised it, he was sitting at the instrument, his hands an inch above the keys, but moving effortlessly above the right notes as if he were playing them himself.

Then he realised he was. “I remember,” he choked out and tears of joy came to his eyes.

He let his hands play over the keys like they had done a thousand times before. It was easy, effortless and as he played, he let the music wash over him.

 

Alex doubled over as her stomach cramped and she narrowly avoided throwing up in the back yard. She gulped down lungsful of air and waited with her hands on her knees for the nausea to pass.

Her mind raced, but the sheer hopelessness of her situation made rational thought impossible. She had lost Jazz, of all of them the one she had thought would be least trouble.

Right, think! She admonished herself after a moment. Calm the fuck down and think about what you can do. She bit back tears and screwed her eyes tight shut and waited for inspiration to come.

But then, weirdly of all things she could hear music coming from inside the house. A flawless classical piano piece, which was the last thing she expected any of them to be listening to, especially in the state they were in.

She came back inside, Tom was nowhere to be seen, so she came through into the hallway. The music was coming from the living room. She hesitated, listening to it. If she wasn’t mistaken it was being played live. And if it was, that only meant one thing, or at least she hoped it did.

The relief hit her so hard she nearly swooned, as she stopped in the doorway to the living room.

Inside, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Tom, Fiona, Clarke and Lucy were all standing around the piano as Jazz, that wonderful, maddening bastard was playing the most beautiful, elaborate piece of music she had ever heard.

His eyes were closed as he played, lost in bliss. The others all watching, transfixed as his skilful fingers danced across the keys.

It was breathtaking, Alex wiped away fresh tears, but these were from not only relief but of joy and amazement. She had heard the rumours that Jazz had been a special talent, but she couldn’t have imagined in her wildest dreams he was this good.

As the piece came to an end, Jazz, still nodding in time to some internal beat, gently rested his hands in his lap.

For the longest time, no one moved, then as if from some unheard prompt, the four listeners all turning in unison, their faces as blank as they always had been, despite what they had just heard and one by one filled out of the living room and went silently back upstairs.

“Jazz, that was amazing,” Alex said hoarsely and had to clear her throat.

Jazz studied his hands as if they weren’t his own. He flexed his fingers and turned them over. A look of confusion flashed across his face. He turned to Alex, and she gasped audibly at the look of absolute desolation in his red eyes. Not what she had been expecting at all.

“Mate, what’s wrong? That was beautiful,” she said.

“I, I remember, everything,” he replied barely audible.

Alex came inside the room and approached him. “From the house?” She asked hopefully.

Jazz shook his head and glanced at his hands again, but this time with a look of almost betrayal. Then turned to her.

“No,” he said softly. “From before. I, I remember who I used to be. Before I got so lost... His voice trailed off.

“Jazz...”

She moved towards him, intent of giving him consoling hug, but the raw pain in his eyes stopped her dead.

“How could I have gotten so lost?” The anguish in his voice was hard to take.

“Jazz, hey, come on,” she moved forwards again and crouched down next to him, but he flinched as she went to touch him.

“It’s okay, mate,” she told him softly, letting her hands fall away. “You’re just a little confused right now, that’s all.”

She couldn’t help herself and tentatively put her hand on his trembling knee. He shuddered under her touch but didn’t pull away.

“It’s whatever they did to you at that house,” she continued. “It’s knocked the shit out of the others, but it looks like it’s effecting you differently.”

He exhaled, his whole body was trembling now, and he reminded her of a lost, frightened child. It almost broke her heart to see such a lovely man so destressed.

He screwed his face up in frustration, desperately searching for the right words.

“It’s like, it’s like, I can think clearly all of a sudden,” he said haltingly. “For the first time in forever, I can remember things, from years ago. Who I used to be.”

He gestured to the piano. “I haven’t played that tune, Christ anything in years. Until just now I didn’t even know I could remember it at all.”

“Well, that’s good...”

“No! No, it’s not!” He snapped. “It’s fucking torture. So much wasted time, so much loss...” He waved a hand at himself. “I used to be such a good person,” he lamented.

“Hey, hey, come on, you are a good person,” Alex told him. “It’s that thing on your back, it’s whatever they did to you at that house.”

His eyes flashed with the same horror she had seen in Fiona’s eyes in her room before. A glimpse of what had happened to them all.

“Jazz.”

He shuddered and shook the memory from his head. “No!” The horror slowly melted from his face, replaced by one of forlorn longing.

“Hey, Jazz,” Alex said again.

“My name is Johnny,” he said. There was a touch of revelation in his voice. “Or at least it used to be.”

“Johnny?” Alex replied in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

He nodded and seemed to drift off for a moment. “I don’t know what’s worse, Alex,” he said to her after a long pause. “Remembering who I was, what talent I had, or knowing that I’ll soon forget it all again.”

“I’ll help you remember,” Alex said resolutely.

“I can feel it fading already,” he said. “Soon I’ll just be that waste of space, Jazz again... Oh, Christ, what have they done to me?”

Alex was about to speak when he swivelled in the chair to face the piano once more.

“I’m already forgetting how to play,” he held up his shaking hands and frowned.

He turned them over and flexed his fingers and again that look of betrayal crossed his face. He took a moment, concentrating, then positioned his fingers over the keys. Then, with great effort began to play.

Alex prayed he could still play as beautifully as before. And the first series of notes were perfect. Then her heart sank at the first wrong note, then the next as his ability to play gradually failed him.

He stopped and hissed through his teeth in frustration, then concentrating hard, he began again. Alex silently willed him to succeed, but this time it was worse. He only managed a few notes before ruining the melody completely.

Jazz let out a heart-rending sob and pulled his hands away from the keys like they were made of razors.

“No,” he hissed. “I can’t, I can’t go back to that. Not after remembering how it was, who I was.”

He turned to Alex, eyes wide in panic. “Alex,” he pleaded. “I can feel him drifting away, I’m trying but no matter how hard I try, he’s dying...”

Alex pulled him close. “Come on, come on,” she urged. “Hold on to it, remember who you are.”

But he cried out in utter despair. “Fading, fading,” he repeated over and over. His voice becoming softer with each word.

Alex swallowed hard, she could feel the hate she held towards those out of towner bastards churning in her guts. But she pushed it down. That wouldn’t help her friend through this trauma. Wouldn’t help...

“Johhny,” she spoke the word firmly in the hope it would anchor him to his old self somehow.

“Johnny’s gone!” Jazz suddenly screamed and began to smash his fists down on the keys.

Alex tried to grab hold of his wrists, but he shouldered her off balance and she fell backwards.

“Jaz... Johnny,” she called out.

But he just kept pounding the keys in a blind rage. Raising a cacophony where there had once been sublime beauty.

“What have they done to me!? What have they done to me!?” He shrieked, punctuating each word with a blow.

“Jazz, what the fuck!?” Cook shouted from behind them.

Alex tuned to see Cook standing in the doorway to the living room with a look of utter disbelief on his face. Jazz just ignored him and continued his assault.

“Cook, he’s losing it,” Alex said redundantly and got to her feet.

“You don’t fucking say!” He replied incredulously. “Jazz, stop that shit!”

Cook moved into the room, his face set in anger and Alex instinctively stepped between him and Jazz.

“Cook, wait. Whatever they did to him, we need to get him some help. We need to get him to a hospital.”

Misha suddenly flew into the room, she moved fast and weaved effortlessly around Cook and then past Alex. Who tried to get in her way but was too slow.

“Let me see,” Misha said.

“Back off!” Alex snarled.

She reached out a hand and caught Misha’s sleeve, but she twisted out of her grip with surprising speed and strength.

Jazz collapsed onto the piano keys sobbing, the rage gone as quickly as it had started.

“Leave us,” Misha told Alex.

“Fuck that!”

Alex turned to Cook. “Cook,” she began, but he silenced her with a look like murder.

“Alex, out, now,” he said and meant it.

Before she could react, Cook grabbed her violently by the arm and Alex had just enough time to look back to see Misha putting a comforting arm around Jazz as he sobbed, before she was pulled from the room and into the hallway.

Cook pulled her over to the open doorway, but she yanked her arm away and held up her hands in submission.

“Okay, okay,” she said testily.

Cook jabbed a finger at her, his face red with anger and frustration. “Are you out of your fucking mind? If that big bastard had been here, he would have snapped you in two.”

“I said, okay!” Alex relented belligerently.

They squared off, both breathing hard, Alex gave him a look like daggers and was seriously contemplating going for her knife.

“Listen to me, let her deal with Jazz, she knows what she’s doing,” Cook said with surprising sensitivity. “Don’t fuck this up, we’re nearly done here. Then we can all breathe a sigh of fucking relief.”

“This isn’t right,” she told him. “You haven’t been around them, they’re like a bunch of fucking zombies. And poor Jazz...” Her voice trailed off as she pictured that tortured look in his eyes.

“That’s none of our concern,” Cook replied firmly. “I told you they would be sedated. Probably to stop what’s happening to Jazz.”

He took a moment to calm down and ran a hand through his thinning sweat soaked hair.

“This is wrong,” Alex said.

“Wrong? When has anything in this fucking city ever been right?”

Alex fought back the urge to have another go at him, as she knew it was pointless. The woman was Jazz’s best hope she thought bitterly. Besides, if she got fired now, who would be around to look out for him and the others.

“Fuck!” She shouted to the heavens in frustration.

Cook took her firmly by the shoulders. “Just do your job,” he said, calmer now. “Watch them until they are needed back at the other house.”

Alex nodded and gave a sigh of acceptance. He was right, damn him.

“Good girl,” Cook said and shook her slightly before letting her go. “We’ll all be better off once they get what they want and then get gone. Until then? Don’t think too much,” he emphasised the last four words.

“Okay,” she breathed.

Cook fished out his car keys from his pocket. “Take my car, get lost for an hour or so and forget all about this for a bit. I’ll stay here, I’ll call you when she’s done.”

Alex nodded and took the keys. She turned and left without another word pulling the door shut behind her.

Cook just stared at the closed door for a moment and waited for his heartbeat to return to something close to normal.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Jazz screamed from the other room.

“Fuck me,” Cook uttered to his feet and turned to re-enter the fray.

And something deep down told him this wasn’t going to end well.

 

 

TWENTY-SIX

 

When Cook came back into the living room, Jazz was pacing back and forth in an agitated state. He noticed both the man’s hands were covered in blood from his assault on the piano.

Misha was doing her best to calm him, but he ignored her platitudes, lost as he was in some whispered monologue. He pulled at his hair which left it slick with blood and grunted something inaudible under his breath.

He looked to Cook like some caged beast that could lash out at any moment. So much so that he patted the back of his trousers where his pistol was tucked in the waistband.

It was hard to believe that this mass of dangerous and unpredictable energy was the same placid stoner Cook had seen around for years. Everyone loved Jazz, the gentle soul that he was. What would they make of him now?

“Please, Jazz,” Misha urged softly. “You must try to calm down.” She tentatively reached out a hand, but he pulled violently away.

“Calm down? Calm down?” He sneered. Then let out a harsh laugh of derision.

Mindful of the scene Jazz was making and the effect it might have on then others, Cook gently closed the door behind him. “Jazz, relax,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Jazz growled back.

Jazz paused for a moment as if realising who he was talking to. Then he let out a bitter laugh.

“What are you gonna do, Cook?” He goaded. “Kneecap me?”

Shoot you in the fucking head, asshole, Cook thought but kept that to himself.

“No one is going to hurt you,” Misha assured him.

Jazz gave her a look of utter incredulity. He leant towards her and laughed right in her face.

“Hurt me? Hurt me? What the fuck do you call this?”

He hit himself hard on the back of his shoulder and screamed in pain.

“Don’t!” Misha cried out in shock. “You mustn’t touch that!”

Jazz rolled his shoulder and winced in pain as he staggered back a step like a drunkard. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he mocked. “Will that fuck up your little experiment?”

He leant against the piano for support and braced himself. Then hit the bandage hard again. He shrieked in pain and punched the keys hard with his blooded fist, sending two of them spinning through the air.

Misha brought her hands up to her face in shock. “Please,” she begged and took a step close to him.

“Stay away from me!” Jazz yelled.

Misha kept coming, her arms outstretched as if imploring him to stop. But Jazz backed blindly away until he bumped hard into the wall. He let out an odd, strangled cry at the impact, then pointed an accusing bloody finger at Misha.

“What have you done to me?” The pain was clear in his voice.

Tears came now as the rage and the energy it brought seemed to flee his body in an instant. He rested against the wall deflated.

“Why did you make me remember?” His chin rested on his chest, and he swayed precariously from side to side.

Misha’s breath caught in her throat. “What do you remember?” It sounded like an accusation.

Cook moved forwards, but she held out a hand to stop him.

“What does it matter?” Cook asked. He was just glad the lunatic had run out of steam.

“Silence,” Misha said dismissively and then returned her attention back to Jazz.

“What do you remember?” She asked again and slowly approached him.

Jazz let his arms fall by his side and his shoulders slumped. He shook his head utterly exhausted.

“Jazz, what do you remember?” She prompted. “Something from the house?”

“No,” Jazz replied barely audible.

Misha leant in to hear.

“Well,” Jazz continued hesitantly. “Fleeting images, but that’s not it.” He lifted his head to look her in the eye.

“I remembered who I was before... Before my life turned into so much shit. When I was happy,” a faint smiled played across his lips. “All of it.”

“That’s interesting,” Misha said with surprise.

“Hmm,” Jazz agreed.

His face brightened all of a sudden and he gestured to the blood speckled piano. “I haven’t played a note in years. Wouldn’t have been able to either, not even if you’d put a gun to my head.”

Jazz closed his eyes, he could almost hear the music drifting through the air again. Music he himself had played. He tried in vain to hum the tune, but no matter how hard he concentrated it was just out of reach.

“I, I just sat down and played it,” he said in awe. “Played a song I haven’t played in years. Like I had just learnt it yesterday.”

He slumped down in the chair with his back to the piano but made no attempt to turn and try play it again.

“But that’s good,” Misha told him. “Isn’t that good?”

She moved cautiously towards him as if fearful he might leap up and attack her at any moment.

“Jazz, please let me see your back.”

“It’s all gone,” Jazz breathed in utter desolation, and he glanced at his mutinous hands.

“Jazz, please.”

But Jazz didn’t hear her, lost as he was in his own pain. It was like a physical feeling of loss, and it was devastating. He could feel all rational thought, the bliss of remembering who he once was, slowly slipping away with every heartbeat.

That wonderous glimpse into a life lost to substance abuse and despair, cruelly fading away. But what was worse still was the feeling that deep down, now that he had seen its purity and grace, it’s wasted potential. Jazz knew it would still be there, forever clinging to some dark recess of his psyche. Always just out of reach and reason, taunting him with the memory of what once was.

Johnny Pritchard, that wonderful musician and free thinker would be trapped, slowly drowning in the mire of Jazz’s addled brain. And he would never be free of that yearning for him as long as he lived.

Jazz choaked back a sob as a phrase came to mind. “It’s the hope that’ll kill you.”

He would never be free of that splinter of loss that, up until that accursed woman had awoken in him, he had so easily been able to supress. He had no doubt that it would grow now, like a rotting cancer of the soul, slowly, but not quite completely killing him.

He would never be free of it. “Why would you do that to me?” He asked weakly.

He could sense more than see Misha drawing closer. When she spoke, it was like out of a distant dream.

“Jazz, it will pass, I promise you. Once all this is over you won’t remember.”

And Jazz realised she didn’t even know what she was taking about. She never could.

“Come on, Jazz, twenty grand,” it was Cook now, pitching in the only way he knew how. “You’ll have twenty grand, that can buy a lot of amnesia.”

Jazz actually smiled at this, true, but it wouldn’t be enough. “Ignorance is bliss, so they say,” he uttered. Then turned in the chair to face the piano.

Misha took this as a sign of consent and moved gratefully to him to examine the bandage. Which she could see was already seeping multi-coloured liquid into his t-shirt.

Jazz pressed down on one of the keys with his index finger as she pulled his t-shirt up for a better look.

He kept playing that same note over and over. Something at the back of his mind was soothed by this. So many contradictions, the sound could be both pleasure and pain, each emotion changing from moment to moment.

“I need my bag,” Misha said from behind him and moved away and out of the room.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Jazz recognised the note he was playing. A-Sharp. Fucking A, he mused. Fucking-A sharp, it seemed apt somehow.

As he played the note, Jazz let his right-hand fall to his side, he slipped it into his back pocket and pulled out the half bottle of vodka he had hidden there. Times gone by, he though, he would have gladly drunk the whole thing in one, and then just drifted away into the arms of oblivion.

That’s what Jazz would have done. But the fading Johnny Pritchard had a much better use for it.

He leapt to his feet and smashed the bottle on the top of the piano, spraying liquor all over the front of the instrument. He wheeled around, holding the jagged remains like a weapon.

“Jazz! Fuck!” Cook shrieked.

Ever the word smith, eh Cooky? Johnny mused and took up a defensive stance.

Misha came running back into the room, she cried out in shock and dropped her bag.

“Jazz!” She exclaimed in horror.

“Jazz?” Johnny replied grinning. “Never fucking heard of him.”

He gave the frozen pair a serene smile. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so in control in his life, and it felt good. He saw Cook begin to slowly reach around his back, probably a gun he surmised nonchalantly.

“Life is but, degrees of pain,” Johhny Pritchard announced.

Misha knew a split second before even Jazz did what he was about to do, but even she wasn’t quick enough to react. He stabbed himself hard in the side of his neck with the jagged bottle.

Misha let out a howl of despair as a fountain of blood spurted out from the ragged wound, it splattered all over the piano and painted the wall to his right. He staggered slightly and a look of shock crossed his face for a moment. But an instant later it changed to one of almost glee.

Misha took a step forwards, but Jazz viciously stabbed himself again and again in the neck. A red mist clouded the air between them, and Misha felt the spray hit her face.

“No!” She lunged at him as his eyes rolled over white and his legs gave way from under him.

She caught him as he fell, but he was slick with blood, which was still pumping from the wounds, covering them both. His body slipped through her arms, and she fell to her knees as his body crumpled in a heap in front of her.

She desperately clamped her hands over the spurting wounds in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. ”No,” she pleaded. “Please, no.”

All Cook could do was watch on in wide eyed stunned horror at the almost operatic carnage playing out before him.

Misha clawed at Jazz’s drenched t-shirt. She rolled him onto his front and ripped off the bandage, but try as he might, there was too much blood for Cook to see what was underneath.

“No, too soon!” Misha wailed and began shaking Jazz’s lifeless body.

“He’s dead,” Cook uttered, coming to his senses somewhat. “Can’t you see he’s dead?”

“No,” Misha said defiantly. “It’s too soon, it hasn’t taken yet...”

Too soon or not, Cook thought, but kept it to himself. He’s dead lady, he’s very fucking dead. He looked on silently as she began to sob uncontrollably and let Jazz’s lifeless body slip to the floor.

 

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

 

In Cook’s line of work, there were on occasions, such as this, that you needed somebody to call to clean up after a body. It hadn’t been the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last that Cook had dialled that particular service.

He watched the four white boiler suited figures expertly get to work cleaning all trace of Jazz’s rather spectacular demise. There was quite an art to it he had to admit.

It was a family business, a father, two daughters and a son. They had arrived twenty minutes after Tiny had collected the near catatonic Misha. And without any questions they had got straight to work, with all the practiced nonchalance of a team that might just as well have been cleaning up after a party.

Jazz’s body was already wrapped in plastic and in the back of their van. The father has asked if Cook had a preference where they disposed of it, but not being the sentimental type, he had told him they could do whatever the hell they wanted with it.

Despite the room having resembled an abattoir when they arrived, it was already starting to take shape, and Cook knew within an hour or so you wouldn’t have a clue what had transpired here.

So, he had left them to it and walked out into the back yard, the cold air being much more preferable to the oppressive atmosphere in the house. He took out a cigarette, but it took him four attempts to light it, his hands were shaking so much.

Cook had seen death before, dealt it out on occasion. But he had never witnessed anything quite like this before. It was that look in Jazz’s eyes that haunted him the most. ‘Don’t dwell on it,’ he told himself. That way only leads to bouts of soul searching which he did not need.

Then there was the question about the cause of all that mayhem. In the few short minutes between Misha leaving and the clean-up crew arriving, Cook had been left alone with the body. He didn’t really know Jazz, but that wild man he had become before killing himself wasn’t him.

It was plain to Cook that there was something more than hard booze flowing through the man’s blood stream for him to react like that. Sure, drunks could be unstable, but to that extent?

Once Misha and that brick shit house had gone, Cook had gone over to the body to see just what it was on Jazz’s back that could have contributed to his lunatic actions. That was when he had noticed the faint acidic smell coming from the body. He cursed, Misha had asked to be alone with Jazz for a moment and now he knew why.

Whatever had been under that bandage had been burnt away by a small, but well aimed amount of acid. The wound was red raw, and the flesh had been eaten down to the bone in places, forcing Cook to retreat into the hallway for fear of losing his lunch. Very efficient he thought grimly and finished his cigarette.

He paced the back yard, lamenting, and not for the first time, ever taking on this job. Still, that was redundant now. What was more pressing was what he was going to tell Alex. That was when his phone rang.

“Shit,” he cursed seeing the caller ID and pressed answer. “Misha, wasn’t expecting for you to call so soon.”

He had hoped it would be a good day or two before she called again, but it had only been two hours tops since she had left.

“Are the others still alright?” She asked coldly.

“Yeah, not a peep out of them since...” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Since? Christ, he shuddered remembering the direct aftermath of Jazz’s suicide.

Misha had still been sobbing over Jazz’s body when the four of them had come silently into the living room. And they had just stood there, blank faced with not a hint of distress at the bloody scene they had walked in on.

That was more disturbing to Cook than anything else. Nothing, not a flicker of emotion. Even when Misha seemed to sense their presence and got to her feet and had gone over to them.

She was a walking bloody nightmare, with the body of their fifth member sprawled on the floor in a pool of his own blood just behind her. And still nothing, then Misha had held up her bloody hands, palms out and as if on cue they had all just turned and moved off silently, trance like, back upstairs to their rooms.

How the hell he hadn’t just run screaming from the house at that point, Cook would never know.

“Mister Cook,” Misha prompted, bringing him back to the here and now.

“I’m here.”

“And they are safe?” she asked, her voice sounding strained.

“Yeah.”

“Good, watch them closely, we cannot afford to lose another.

He nodded in reply despite being on the phone.

“Do you understand?” She asked, some of the venom coming back into her voice.

“Yeah, yes,” he replied. “I understand. So, what’s next?”

“I will need a little time, to prepare another candidate. Once I’m ready, I will contact you again.”

Bollocks, Cook thought. There was a part of him that hoped losing one of them would have put an end to the whole sorry mess.

“Clear?” Misha asked.

“Yeah, clear.”

“Any more questions?”

Christ no! But he simply replied. “None.”

“It didn’t have to be this way,” she said softly, maybe to herself. Then. “No more fuck ups mister Cook,” she added vehemently. The curse word didn’t suit her.

“No more fuck ups,” he assured her. She hung up and he was grateful for it.

 

“Penny for them?” The bartender asked Alex as she nursed her double whiskey, lost in thought.

“Benny, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, mate,” she told him languidly.

The whisky was her second, and it had taken every drop for her to convince herself that Jazz would be okay. It was just as Misha had said. He was just having a reaction to the ‘procedure.’

She checked her phone, she had been away from the house for two hours and eighteen minutes and had to fight the urge to call Cook and ask him what was taking so long.

She closed her eyes and breathed slowly in through her nose, held the breath for a moment, then breathed out through her mouth. The calming action suddenly triggered a memory which came out of the blue. Something she hadn’t thought of in years.

When she and Nix had been younger, he had come up with this meditation type mantra thingy for times such as these. How did it go again? Breathe in through your nose, hold it, then breathe out through your mouth. Whilst saying in your head.

“Breathe in the love, hold it. Breathe out the jive,” she whispered it to herself and couldn’t help but smile.

But the memory soured, and the smile faded. It was a memory tinged with sadness these days, at the erosion of their friendship over the intervening time, especially the last few months.

They had been so close in those early years, like brother and sister. She remembered just how many times over the years they had to deny they were or had ever been a couple, and despite their closeness, it was true. In fact, they had kissed only once, in their mid-teens, when they were both drunk. But it had felt so wrong they had vowed never to cross that line again.

She repeated the mantra and the action. Breathe in the love, hold it. Breathe out the jive.

Alex knew it was the drink, but she missed the idiot so much, even after everything. Nix was sick, and all he could do to deaden the pain was to self-medicate. They all knew it, but dismissed it as; Well, what you gonna do with him? Nix will be Nix.

A familiar tune drifted through the air as she repeated the breathing exercise a third time.

“Alex, Christ, answer your phone,” Benny pleaded from behind the bar.

Alex jolted back to the here and now. Her phone was ringing on then bar in front of her, she snatched it up, cursing the alcohol clouding her brain.

“Yeah?”

“Alex,” it was Cook. “Get back here now.”

 

Cook looked like shit when she got there. He was sitting on the front doorstep when she pulled up and got out.

“Everything okay?” She asked as she approached and tossed him the keys.

“Sure,” he replied with an odd lightness that didn’t suit him.

She eased past him and entered the house. She was immediately aware of the smell of bleach in the air.

“Christ,” she winced and stopped by the living room door where the smell was strongest. “What happened in here?” She asked and had to come away as the chemical was beginning to sting her sinuses.

Cook closed the front door and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Jazz threw up in there, we had to clean the carpet.”

“Is he okay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he repeated, almost robotically.

“Where is he, upstairs?” She moved towards the bottom of the stairs.

“Jazz dropped out,” Cook said from behind her.

She stopped, one foot on the first step and turned to him. “He dropped out?” She said in disbelief.

Cook nodded, not making eye contact.

“What happened?” Alex pushed.

“I told you, he dropped out. You saw him, he couldn’t hack it.”

“Shit, is he okay?” Alex asked shocked. “Where is he?”

Cook just played with his keys.

“Cook?” Alex demanded. “Where is he?”

“Probably crawled off into a bottle somewhere,” Cook replied fidgeting. “You know what he’s like. I gave him some money, you just missed him.”

Alex looked at Cook, it was rare to see him so elusive. He had always been the type to look you straight in the eye and to hell with your feelings.

“I’d better give him a call,” Alex said.

“No,” Cook snapped. “No calls, just drop it, for now, eh?”

“Drop it? He’s my friend!”

“Listen, he asked to be left alone for a while. Give him a couple of days to lick his wounds. He was really busted up about everything, figured he’d let everyone down.”

“Oh, Jazz,” Alex uttered deflated.

She hadn’t thought about how he must have felt after his outburst. Not to mention missing out on the twenty grand.

“Give him time,” Cook told her. “Believe me, he’ll realise he’s better off out of it.”

Alex nodded, that was true. Hadn’t she hated the fact he was messed up in all this, anyway? Perhaps he was better off, he’d bounce back, Jazz always did. She decided she’d give him a call in a day or so. Also ask Meg to keep an eye out for him.

“Okay?” Cook prompted.

“Yeah,” she finally relented and actually felt her mood lift a little. One less to worry about, right?

“Good, I’m off. Keep an eye on those others,” Cook said pointing to the ceiling. “We can’t afford to lose anymore.”

Alex watched him go, then despite the smell she went through into the living room. She cursed and covered he nose and mouth with her sleeve.

The place had been scrubbed clean in what seemed like overkill to her. The hint of nagging doubt crept into the edge of her consciousness. A doubt she so wanted to dismiss. After all she had told herself Jazz was better off out of it. But still, despite the logic of that, the doubt was still lurking there.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and tears welled in her eyes. From the bleach or something else, she did not know.

 

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

 

The boy was screaming, the power of his rage belying his fragile state. Misha watched on devastated as the doctor tried to calm him as he thrashed about on his bed his thin arms flailing wildly as he tried to fight the man off.

“Doc...” Misha uttered, close to tears.

He glanced back at her, and she shook her head. He nodded and let the boy go. Thankfully he didn’t try and get up, he just lay there now, hissing short sharp breaths through clenched teeth. Eyes wide like a lunatic’s.

“I’m sorry Misha,” Doctor Harding said, breathing hard from the excursion. “This is more your area than mine,” he added apologetically.

Misha nodded, he was right, she knew she shouldn’t have asked him to try placating the boy, that was not why he was here. It had been a mistake brought on by exasperation and grief.

The doctor’s charge was not the boy. His responsibility was waiting patiently in the coach out back, waiting for the next participant to be found to replace Jazz.

“I’m sorry, doc,” she replied ruefully. “And thank you for trying.”

“You’re welcome,” Harding said and she moved out of the way as he hurried from the room.

The boy suddenly sat bolt uprightwith a look of pure hate in his eyes. He was seething, trying to speak, but clearly couldn’t find the words so all he could do was roar at her in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered redundantly and left the room and closed the door.

“Tiny?” She called out weakly and wrapped her arms around herself.

But he wasn’t on the landing as she had expected. She had to fight back the tears that were so desperate to come. There would be time enough later for self-pity.

She heard a crash from a room further down the long landing. It came from the room with the precious remaining photographs in. She ran down but stopped by the open doorway.

Tiny was inside, he had his hands clasped over his ears in an attempt to block out the boy’s screams. He paced the floor, his face screwed up in pain. A smashed chair lay in one corner where he had no doubt hurled it in frustration.

Twice he moved to leave but then spun back around and barged into the table in the middle of the room. Misha had ordered him not to go to the boy whilst the doctor was in there, but it was clear that although he had never, ever disobeyed her before, the conflict was tearing him apart.

He suddenly slammed his fist down hard on the table with incredible force and it splintered into kindling as if made of balsa wood.

“Tiny!”

He turned to her, breathing hard, he moved to leave but she stepped in front of him.

“No!” She ordered.

Tiny stopped dead, his eyes pleading with her. Even though he could quite easily brush her aside if he wished, Misha didn’t fear for an instant that he would.

His shoulders seemed to sag at the realisation. Then he turned and gestured to the photographs all around them.

“I know,” Misha said softly. “And we will find another, I promise you.”

She paused for a moment, hating to say out loud what they both knew was coming. And the reason the boy was so enraged.

“But we need more blood.”

Tiny shook his head, his face snapped from a look of frustration to one of belligerence.

“We have to,” she told him. “You know that.”

Tiny frowned and frantically looked around the room. He then rushed through into the adjoining darkroom and emerged a moment later with her camera.

“Tiny...” She knew what he was doing.

He held the camera at arm’s length and pointed it at himself, nodding vigorously.

“You know that won’t work,” she said a little harshly. She took a breath. “Neither of us can help him in that way.”

She flinched as for an instant it looked like Tiny was going to smash the camera, but he checked himself. Tears came to his soulful, saucer-like eyes.

“I know,” Misha said and embraced him. “We’ll find another way. But we do need more blood.”

She pulled away and gave him a knowing look. “And before you offer, you know it must be his blood.”

Tiny nodded reluctantly. Then he glanced at the smashed table littering the floor.

Misha laughed despite everything. “I’ll forgive you. Just this once.”

She gently took the camera from his massive hands. “Go to him,” she said and only now noticed that the boy had fallen silent. No doubt exhausted from his tantrum.

“I’ll prepare the equipment,” she continued. “He needs us to be strong for him, Tiny. Deep down he knows it’s necessary, but he’s so very weak.”

Tiny embraced her as gently as he could, but it still made her gasp. Then he left her to take in the trashed room.

 

The boy laid on his bed, trembling with fever, his features pale and rung out. His eyes flicked open and darted around the room, finally coming to rest on Tiny who was sitting on a chair at the side of the bed.

The big man smiled and brushed the sweat-soaked hair away from the boy’s face. The boy glared at Tiny for quite some time before shifting slightly. He winced in pain and choked back a sob.

“Kill me,” he said gravely.

Tiny’s heavy-lidded eyes widened in horror at this, and he shook his head. Tears came an instant later.

The boy smiled weakly, and his young face softened seeing his friend’s pain. Then with great effort he propped himself up on his elbow and raised a hand to Tiny’s broad face and stroked his tear-stained cheek.

“If you love me,” he whispered. “Kill me.”

Tiny took the boy’s hand and tenderly kissed it. He looked down at him with nothing but love in his eyes.

The boy exhaled at this, defeated. He watched as Tiny took a marker pen out of his shirt’s breast pocket and began to write something on the wall by the bed. ‘This can’t go on forever.’

Resigned to his fate, the boy rested his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes. “And yet, it does,” he sighed.

The door opened and Misha came into the room pushing the trolly with all the blood taking paraphernalia on it. She began to silently ready the equipment, her face set in grim determination.

“Vampire,” the boy said weakly.

Tiny rolled up the boy’s pyjama sleeve in readiness for the inevitable.

“I’ll take as little as I dare,” Misha told him, unable to look up from her preparations.

 

Misha had been true to her word, but as she stood in the darkroom pushing the last of the new photographs she had chosen, in what was left of the fresh blood mixture, she feared it may still have been too much.

The boy hadn’t regained consciousness after the procedure and Tiny was currently watching over him whilst she carried out the new tests.

It had been a miracle she had been able to eke out another four attempts from the meagre amount of blood she had dared to take from the boy. She would have liked more to increase the odds of success, but she knew she was pushing her luck as it was.

She attached the last piece of photographic paper to the line with a wooden peg and waited for it to react.

The original photo had been one of the first she had taken when they arrived in the city. They had been driving around its dingy streets, late at night when they had past this particular subject as he walked alone. There had been something about the man’s gait and the way he hung his head as he walked that had piqued Misha’s interest.

She had taken the shot on the fly as they drove past him and hadn’t really thought of it since. Until desperation had taken her back to the room with the potentials. Then she had been drawn to it, perhaps it was nothing, the fact it was a candid shot and not posed, just captured, didn’t bode well. But it had spoken to her all the same.

As she watched, the image began to rapidly decay, much faster than she could ever have imagined possible. And in just a few short seconds the transformation from normality to utter corruption was complete.

“Perfect,” she whispered in awe.

Then and instant later she cursed her incompetence as she was suddenly hit with the realisation that she had no idea who this man was. Her heart sank, why hadn’t she insisted Tiny stop that night so that she could have taken some contact details? Normally she was so fastidious about such things.

It would have been utterly devastating were it not for the fact that one of the other photographs had also reacted. Not nearly to this degree, and on a good day she might well have rejected it, just in case. But it would have to do, especially at this desperate late stage.

She picked up the original off the bench and glanced through the contact details. Congratulations Evie, she thought. You are about to become twenty thousand better off.

And Misha knew she would offer double that amount if needs be.

This woman was the boy’s last hope, and she wouldn’t let anything, anything get in the way of that.

Misha came back into the adjoining room with the two successful photographs just as a shattered looking Tiny entered from the landing.

She held up the sheets for him to see. “We were lucky,” she said. “One and one spare.”

Tiny perked up at this and gave her a grateful smile.

She shook the photo of the unknown man.

“No info on this one though, I took it when we were out driving. Stupid really as I’ve honestly never seen one take to well before.”

Then she brightened as an idea came to her. “I’ll give the original to mister Cook, perhaps he will be able to identify him.”

Tiny nodded in agreement and gestured to the photo in her other hand.

“This one will do just fine if not,” she told him. “I’ll get Cook to contact her in the morning.”

Tiny gestured for her to follow, and they went through into the boy’s room.

The boy was slight at the best of times but seemed like nothing more than skin and bones as he lay there. Misha almost wept seeing him sleeping fitfully as if lost in some nightmare.

“Whatever it takes,” she pledged, and Tiny put his arm around her shoulders. “Whatever it takes.”

 

 

TWENTY-NINE

 

Weird fucker, Alex thought as she looked through the window of her room and down to the street below, where the man-mountain they laughingly called Tiny was standing by their car.

He was just staring impassively at the mid-morning sky as if trying to locate the dull sun as it failed to penetrate the low heavy cloud that had descended.

The commotion had started earlier this morning. Alex had been awoken from a fitful sleep by Cook and an unusually chirpy Misha. They were in the kitchen at the moment conspiring over more photographs, making plans no doubt for what she assumed would be the next victim in the horror show they were running. The replacement for poor old Jazz. And the pair had unceremoniously banished Alex to the top floor.

Thought of Jazz reminded her to give his phone another try. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t returned any of her calls so far. He was no doubt hiding out somewhere with his tail between his legs, lamenting his lost twenty grand. But once she did finally get him, she would reassure him that he was best out of this insane circus.

She selected his number and pressed the call button, but as with her previous attempts it went straight to voice mail. She cursed under her breath but left her fifth message all the same.

“Hey, Jazz, it’s me, Alex again.” Her voice came out unnaturally high, and she had to clear her throat. God how she hated voicemails it was as if you suddenly forgot the gift of coherent speech.

“You really need to start answering your phone fella,” Christ, now she sounded like a schoolteacher! “Er, anyway,” she bumbled on. “I’m just checking you’re okay, you know with dropping out and everything. Please give be a call back, I just need to know you’re okay. Drop me a text even, if you don’t feel like talking. Take care! See ya.”

She hung up and shook her head in dismay. “Moron,” she admonished herself for her verbal failure.

Still, she desperately wanted to know he was okay. She knew he wasn’t the type of person to hurt himself, even at his drug or drink fuelled lowest. Jazz had always been a happy drunk, more prone to philosophy than melancholic self-loathing. Which was why his crazed outburst at the piano had shocked her so.

Her attention drifted back to the window, and she saw that Tiny now seemed to be looking straight up at her as she wandered by. His expression was so blank she couldn’t tell if he was actually looking directly at her or just off into space.

She waved and mouthed, ‘hi!’ But he didn’t react, so she came away from the window with a shudder.

A text alert on her phone went off in her hand and she nearly cried out. She looked at it, more in hope than expectation.

‘Hey Alex, sorry, can’t talk, but I’m fine, don’t worry, I’m okay. Will call soon. – Jazz’

“Oh, thank Christ.”

Relief flooded her system, and she texted back with shaking hands.

‘Of course, just glad you’re okay, mate. You know where I am if needed.’

Suddenly buoyed by this welcome piece of good news, Alex found herself wandering out into the landing, but she stopped at the top of the stairs. She had been doing her best to fight it, but she was itching to listen in on what Cook and Misha were planning downstairs. After all, it was easy to convince herself, she would know soon enough anyway.

Alex made her way quietly down the stairs and then padded along the hallway like a thief, where she stopped within listening distance of the kitchen. She checked behind her to make sure the living room door was open in case she needed to back off for a quick exit.

 

Cook gave a half smile and put Jazz’s phone away. He thought he heard a faint creak coming from outside but ignored it and concentrated once more on Misha who was standing with her arms folded, brow creased in concern, she leant forwards and tapped one of the photographs laid out on the table where he was sitting, like generals planning an attack.

“That’s the one I really want,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t know him?”

It was the third time she had asked him and for the third time he made great play of examining the subject in the picture.

Of course, he knew the little shit. But he would be damned if he was going to tell Misha that. He shook his head and frowned.

“Sorry, the face doesn’t ring a bell at all.”

He watched her reaction as she paced the floor. She wrinkled her nose but clearly wasn’t letting it sour her mood too much. After all they had another potential.

“No matter,” she replied, absently chewing her bottom lip. “The girl will do just fine.”

“I know her, it won’t be a problem.”

“Good, good,” Misha said nodding. “Time is short mister Cook. What with losing the other...” She let her voice trail off. The less said about that the better.

“I understand,” Cook said. “I’ll call her straight away and arrange for her to come over here.”

“Yes, perfect. I’ll give her all the details when you find her, just like the others,” she paused before continuing.

“I’m not going to lie to you, we are desperate. So, you are sure she this Evie is reliable?”

“Don’t worry, she’ll agree,” Cook assured her.

She seemed to take comfort from his confidence regarding Evie. He could tell she was starting to clutch at straws a little and he liked the shift in the power dynamic that caused. She still terrified him, just not so much. Especially when they were away from the other house and whatever dwelt there.

Misha stopped pacing and picked up the photo of the ‘unidentified man.’ “Shame about this one, he would have been perfect,” she lamented. And tossed it back down on the table.

“His loss,” Cook said and hoped he’d managed to keep the smugness out of his voice. She didn’t react, so he was sure he had.

“I’ll see you later then,” she said abruptly. “I’ve be over later to examine the five... Four of them and speak to this Evie.”

“Okay,” Cook replied.

“I’ll see myself out.” With this she turned and breezed out of the kitchen.

Cook listened as she went and then relaxed a little when he heard the front door close. He slid the picture of Nixon across the table to himself and sneered at it.

“Creepy bitch,” Alex said and came into the kitchen, making no attempt to feign ignorance.

“Creepy rich bitch,” he reminded her.

“I got a text from Jazz,” Alex said, eyeing the papers on the table.

“That’s good.”

“Christ! Is that Evie?” She exclaimed seeing her photo.

“Yeah, she’s replacing Jazz.”

Alex felt her stomach churn at the shock of seeing such a familiar face. As if to compound her distress, Cook shoved the photo of the ‘unidentified man’ she had heard them discussing, across the table for her to see.

“The gang’s all here,” he said.

“That’s Nixon!”

“I know what Nixon looks like,” he replied.

Her head began to swim at the revelation. This was turning into even more of a nightmare, if that were even possible. Jazz being involved was bad enough. But Nix and Evie?

“Why didn’t you tell her you knew it was Nix?” She asked sharply.

“Eavesdropping?” He said not the least bit surprised. “You know what curiosity did to the cat, don’t you?”

“But she wanted Nix most of all, didn’t she?” She felt sick, as if she were making a case for Nix over Evie, and maybe she was.

Cook shrugged and tore up Nixon’s photograph.

“You know Evie’s got a kid?” She reminded him.

“I know, I just don’t care.”

Alex had to resist the urge to smack the bastard in the mouth. She knew she had to be smarter than that.

“Do you want me to call her?” She asked.

Cook eyed her with thinly veiled suspicion. “I’ll call her, and I’ll pick her up” he said coldly. “I don’t want you anywhere near her until after she gets here and agrees to all this.”

Alex bit her tongue and met his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster. Cook suddenly slammed a pistol down on the table. She started in shock but didn’t cry out.

“If I hear you called her, if I hear you tried to talk her out of this?” He didn’t need to finish the threat, it was as plain as the gun between them.

Then he placed his hand on the pistol and spun it on the table. A faint smile played across his face when, after several revolutions, it came to a stop with the barrel pointing directly at him.

Some sick private joke, Alex guessed. She was inwardly scared as hell but was damned if she was going to show it.

“This will all be over soon,” Cook said and put the pistol away.

He looked up at her and Alex was surprised to see all the menace had fled from his eyes. Replaced by a strange, haunted look.

“Don’t mess this up, Alex, not now,” his voice was oddly soft, tinged with that hint of fear again. “We’re so close to the end. Then, once they’ve got what they want, they’ll be gone. And we can forget this nightmare ever happened.”

Neither of them broke eye contact for the longest time.

“What’s in that house?” Alex finally asked gravely.

Now Cook looked away, off to something that clearly haunted him. Then he shook his head and got abruptly to his feet.

“No,” he uttered, unable to look at her again. “No.”

 

 

THIRTY

 

The shock of the freezing water hitting her overheated body, robbed Evie of the scream that wanted to escape her lips.

She bit back against the cold and rested her hands against the tiled wall of the shower and just let the torrent batter against the back of her head and shoulders.

It was a punishment of sorts, she had gone too far in both performances today. She had pulled a double shift, which was something she usually refused. But it was as if she hated herself so much these days, that she took the offer from Micky with an almost masochistic glee.

The first dance had been bad enough, two dozen howling testosterone fuelled university jocks, slumming it down in the city centre after some graduation party had spilled over and out onto the streets. They had been prowling the neighbourhood in search of thrills and chills and this had led them, inevitably to the grand temple of sleaze. Club Fresh Hell.

It had taken three bouncers to keep them behind the stage barrier, and what was worse, Evie had played up to it shamelessly.

It made her sick now to think of it. But she had teased and cavorted like she had never done before, ripping at her already scanty costume until it hung in shreds off her body.

What made it worse and what led to her taking the second shift was that she knew exactly what she was doing. She had made more money in that first performance than in all the previous week. Just as Micky had promised it would, if she just ‘opened up a little.’

The second session had been a daze of pirouettes and languid aerobics. The audience was smaller and thankfully more sedate, they were the heroin chic crowd, their stoned and lifeless faces barely registering more than glassy eyed beguilement.

Evie hadn’t changed from the first session, so her costume felt like soddened rags, clinging to her body as she moved with all the grace and poise of a crack whore, which was exactly how she had felt.

And this was just what the crowd wanted, some wacked out bitch stumbling through her routine in the hopes of receiving their scraps of payment. So then, her audience no doubt fantasized, she would slink off somewhere dark to smoke or inject away the pain. Much like themselves, until the next round of aching and fevered nightmares began a fresh and they would start the whole sorry cycle of insanity all over again.

Evie came out of the showers and wrapped a towel around herself. She looked at her pathetic reflection in the dressing room’s long mirror and just wanted to cry. She narrowed her eyes as she took in the drenched pitiful woman looking back at her.

“You fucking whore,” she hissed.

 

After she had dressed, Evie started to feel at least part human again. She threw what was left of her costume into the bin and swore to herself she would never let herself get into a situation like that again. No matter how good the money was.

She was collecting her things      when someone started clapping from behind her. She looked up into the mirror to see Micky standing by the door applauding her with a sarcastic grin on his face.

“You’re not allowed in here, Farnell,” she told him curtly and finished packing her bag.

“Just wanted to say, good job in there today,” he gestured to the pile of money on the table by her bag.

Evie felt queasy knowing he would have been watching her on one of the CCTV monitors in his office, maybe even recording her performance.

“Can I book you for the same crowd next week? You were very popular with them. But I have a few notes.”

“Fuck off Micky, I’m not in the mood!” She snapped.

“Shame.”

Evie took her knife out from the side pocket of her bag and placed it on the table.

“Okay, okay,” he relented. “I’m leaving, you know where I am.”

“You’ll get your cut,” she told him.

“Cool!” He replied and exited with a smirk.

God how she hated that man and everything he stood for. It was as if he enjoyed sucking the joy and life out of people. And she wasn’t even sure if he was in it for the money or just the sadism.

She cursed under her breath and put the knife away. She took out her phone and tapped it off sleep mode, and saw she had three missed calls from an unknown number.

Normally she would delete such notifications, but something made her push the return call button. After all she thought, today couldn’t get much worse.

“Evie!?” The voice was vaguely familiar.

“Yeah?” She replied tentatively.

“Evie, it’s Cook.”

Her mind instantly went to Nix. What had the idiot done now?

“What’s up?” She asked.

“There’s been a change of plans, you’re in!”

It took her a moment to realise what he was saying. “In?”

“Christ yes, in!” The frustration was clear in his voice. “The twenty grand? The photographs? They want you.”

He was still speaking, but she barely heard a word he was saying, as her mind began to fog over with a mixture of shock and euphoria. He was spouting something about urgent, meeting up now, no time to lose. It felt like he was speaking in a foreign language, but her brain was able to make a vague, slow translation.

She managed to put her hand over the phone as she suddenly burst into tears. The wave of sudden relief made her legs nearly buckle right from under her and she had to sit down before she fell down.

“Evie? Evie?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, to everything.” Twenty thousand times yes.

“Good shit,” she heard him say, but again the rest was lost as her mind raced at what all this would mean.

Milly and her, out of this God forsaken city, off to somewhere clean, safe. Away from parasites like Micky fucking Farnell. She got a much-needed hit of clarity at that particular bonus.

“Cook, I’ll need to call you back,” she just about managed to say, her thoughts a blur. “But I’m one hundred percent in,” she clarified. “One hundred percent.”

“Okay,” he replied. “But don’t leave it too long, this is urgent, we need you here soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I just need to arrange a couple of things. Milly, my daughter, y’know?”

“Understood. Asap Evie, asap.” And with that he hung up.

Evie must have had the phone to her ear for a full minute before she placed it onto the table. Tears again, but for the first time in forever, tears of joy, tears of hope.

 

Micky Farnell made a very satisfying childish shriek when Evie kicked his door open and came into his office like a freight train.

“Jesus!” He exclaimed in shock. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Evie threw a wad of notes at him, they hit his chest and flew around like confetti.

“There’s your fucking cut!” She spat out. “I quit.”

“Wait, wait, what?” He said flustered as a twenty-note glided before his eyes. He shooed it away like a wasp.

“You fucking heard,” she replied with real venom.

“Bullshit! What the fuck are you talking about? You fucking psycho.” He began to gather up the notes that had fallen on his desk.

“I’m done with you, I’m done with this fucking hellhole,” she ranted. “I quit, you hateful sonofabitch. You want someone to be more flexible? Try bending over and I’ll fuck you with this knife.”

She pulled out her knife and flicked out the blade. She knew she was seething and hissing through her teeth like a crazy woman, and it felt good. So good she was seriously thinking about stabbing the bastard.

Micky sprung to his feet and kicked his chair hard from under him, so it clattered against the wall behind.

“Come on!” Evie dared him and slashed the knife through the air.

He looked ready to come at her for a split second, but clearly thought better of it, and stayed where he was with the table between them.

“You’re not so pure,” he said. Nobody made you do anything you didn’t wanna.”

She beckoned him on. “You coming or what?” She taunted.

“I saw you today,” he continued. “On the CCTV, you fucking loved it.”

“Well, that’s as close as you are ever going to get to having me, you sad cunt,” she retorted with utter contempt and could see his face drop at the barb.

He tried to come back with some riposte of his own but fumbled his words.

“Worthless,” Evie spat and spun on her heel and walked out the door.

She could hear Micky scrambling towards the doorway as she strode along the hallway towards the stairs at the end, leading to the exit below.

“You’ll come crawling back!” He shouted from behind her. But she could tell he was hanging back at a safe distance. “Your type always come crawling back.”

“Not me,” Evie called out, not turning around. “I’m outta here, out of this fucking city.”

“Ha! You’ll be back Evie,” he yelled impudently. “You’ll be back, and when you do, you’ll have to do more than dance for me to get your job back!”

“Fuck you!” She shouted triumphantly and set off down the steps, feeling as light as a feather.

“That’s the idea,” she heard him say. “Fucking me will be your God damn audition!”

The threat barely registered as she barged through the entrance doors and out into the meagre daylight. She was surprised to see the bouncer hovering outside nursing a cigarette. And she tensed for a moment, but he just beamed at her.

“Way to go, Evie,” he said with genuine affection.

She winked at him, and fair skipped off down the street and away.

 

 

THIRTY-ONE

 

It was in situations such as these that convinced Cook that time was a nonsense.

The two hours Evie had taken to call him back had seemed like two days, but she finally had, and he could now breathe again. She was the final piece of the puzzle, and he couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong this time.

Evie was strong willed, but he had also heard she was desperate, and that should make her more compliant and less prone to ask Misha any awkward questions during her sales pitch. She was like the other four, desperate lives, desperate needs.

Now that he thought about it, Jazz had really been the only one just bumbling along, going wherever the fates and no doubt the voices in his head took him. Christ, hadn’t Alex had to remind the stoner he had entered at all when she found him?

That, with the luxury of hindsight, had been what had made him so unpredictable. That and the booze and probably drugs of course.

But still he would feel a damn sight better once he had shepherded Evie to Misha. And once she had her claws in the woman and pumped her full of whatever shit they were giving the poor bastards, she would be as amenable as a cat on catnip.

“Mister Cook?” Misha called from the living room. “You can come in now.”

She had come to the house to check on the four and he had waited dutifully in the kitchen whilst one by one they shuffled in to be examined, then shuffled back off again and upstairs to their rooms.

Cook hated being in the house with them, but he hated being at the other house more. He didn’t know if it was his imagination, but since the trio had moved in there, (not to mention their guest and ‘its’ team.) He could have sworn the structure of the house was beginning to warp somewhat.

The walls seemed off kilter somehow and the outside façade had taken on a subtle but detectable distortion. Almost like it was buckling under the weight of some strange malevolence that was seeping into its very foundations.

Cook shook off the image and came out of the kitchen, just as the kid, Tom, drifted out of the living room and went stiffly upstairs.

“Christ,” Cook murmured and went into the living room.

Misha was collecting up the last of her medical equipment and placing them carefully into a large canvas bag.

“Do you have an update?” She asked not looking up.

In the end and despite his objections, Misha had insisted that Cook send Alex after all to collect Evie. Of course, he couldn’t tell her the real reason he wanted to go himself, so had made up some shit about wanting to make sure it went smoothly. But she had been adamant, so he had no choice.

It was as if lately, Misha was concerned Cook might disappear, just as he in turn feared Alex might try to talk Evie out of coming. He didn’t like it, as the whole set up and the unpredictability of Alex left him feeling more and more claustrophobic.

All told, this weird woman was paying the bills and so Cook did as he was ordered. But when he was out of earshot of her, he had cornered Alex and let her know in no uncertain terms that there would be murders if she came back alone. Or worse still, tried to disappear herself.

“Mister Cook,” Misha prompted. “Any news?”

“She’ll be here soon.”

“We’ll need to get her straight over to the other house,” she said. “She’ll be out of sync with the others, but that can’t be helped.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” Misha replied and zipped up her bag. “It’s happened before. We will manage.”

Before? Christ how many times had they done this..? Whatever ‘this’ is.

 

After an awkward five minutes of milling about and making a cup of tea he didn’t want, Cook’s phone went off as a text came through, he looked at it and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good news?” Misha asked as he came back into the living room.

He held up his phone for her to see. ‘Two minutes.’

She nodded but Cook picked up on that tension again.

“She’ll do just fine,” Cook found himself saying, but maybe that was to himself more than anyone.

She gave him the faintest of smiles, she was so far from that formidable woman he first met, that it was unnerving.

They went outside and waited on the steps for the minibus to arrive.

Again, Cook got that feeling of time dragging, it turned out only to be a minute or so when Alex’s minibus turned off the main road and began down towards them. But it had felt like an hour, due in no small part to his company.

The minibus pulled up and Alex got out and came around to the passenger’s side.

“Any problems?” Cook called down to her.

“No,” she replied and opened the door.

The first thing Cook saw was the plaster cast as the passenger swung their leg awkwardly out of the minibus. Followed by a pair of crutches, and his blood pressure, which was already high, doubled.

Alex took the crutches and helped Nixon manoeuvre his way onto the pavement. And all Cook could do was curse her nerve and watch on in seething disbelief as Nixon hobbled up the garden path towards them.

“You found him!” Misha cried in delight and came down the path to meet them.

“So, it would seem,” Cook said through gritted teeth.

Nix leant against Alex who was doing her best to avoid Cook’s withering gaze, as Misha vigorously shook his hand. It was as if someone had just given her a shot of pure adrenalin, she was so animated all of a sudden.

“I’m so glad you could join us,” she said brightly. “I thought he’d lost you.”

“Hey, just glad to be here,” Nix replied. He waved to Cook who had a face like thunder, which please him no end.