The Ghosts of London Page 9

  I'm waiting for my murderer.

  I don't know much about Albert Moorgrave, but the files at the massage parlor gave me his address and a few checks online helped with some more details. To be fair, there's not much more that I really need. I arrived at the house about an hour ago, but a quick check through the front and back windows made it pretty clear that Moorgrave isn't home yet. God knows where he's gone, but I imagine he's freaking out about what happened earlier. As far as he's aware, he must think I'm dead, but I hope he hasn't done anything stupid like going to the police or confessing to someone. That would most definitely be an unwelcome complication.

  He murdered me, or at least he thinks he did. It's no-one's business but his and mine.

  Hearing footsteps in the distance, I look along the road and spot a familiar, slightly stumpy silhouette hurrying along. I can't help but smile as I realize that it's him: Albert Moorgrave, the man who held a knife while I - well, we - drove it into my chest, looks as if he's been drinking. I never took him for the type who'd drown his sorrows in booze, but I guess this is a special occasion. As he reaches his front door, he pauses and looks over his shoulder, as if he expects something to be behind him.

  The police?

  A ghost?

  A chorus of angels, pointing at him and screaming?

  There's an awkward pause, almost as if he senses my presence. I lean a little further back into the shadows, just to make absolutely certain that he can't see me, and fortunately he doesn't look over this way. Instead, he seems to be listening to the sound of distant sirens, as if somehow he's worried that they might be coming for him. The poor guy must be so jumpy, and I can't help wondering if he still has some of my blood on his hands.

  Whatever he's worried about, he quickly unlocks the door and heads inside. It's clear that he's scared, and as the door slams shut I can't help but imagine him retreating into the heart of the house, desperate to get away from the world. The poor little guy probably doesn't have a clue what to do next, and I'm sure he's haunted by the memory of my body slumping to the ground. I'd feel sorry for him, if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't try to do anything to help me. He just turned and ran, and now he's hiding himself away, most likely trying to stay sane despite the horror he witnessed. Even though I was the one who plunged the knife into my chest, I bet he's convinced that he'll be blamed. After all, no-one would believe the truth, and the guy already looks and smells like a pervert.

  With a faint smile, I step out of the shadows and walk through the rain, making my way across the road and straight toward his front door.

  Chapter Three

  Katie

  "This is better than fucking gold right now," Simeon says, passing me a slightly warm bottle of mineral water. "The shops have been selling out, and most of the greedy fuckers round here have started marking them up to a fiver or more, just for a little bottle like that." He pauses. "Go on, drink. There'll be plenty of time to get used to the brown water later."

  Unscrewing the lid, I take a swig of water, and I have to admit that it feels good. I watch as Simeon lights a couple of gas burners, and then he opens a nearby cupboard and starts pulling out some blocks of noodles. In this dilapidated, crumbling building, the moment seems strangely domestic. I'm still on my guard in case Simeon tries anything, but so far his kindness seems genuine and I'm really starting to believe that I've been lucky. Still, I know I have to keep my guard up.

  "This isn't exactly gourmet food," he says with a nervous smile. "It's cheap and cheerful, but it fills a hole and I'm betting you're still pretty hungry. Am I right, or am I right?"

  I nod. Although I'm desperate for more food, I can't shake the feeling that every time I accept something new from him, I'm being reeled a little further into his grasp. He bought me a cup of tea and a sandwich at the restaurant, and now he's setting some water to boil so he can cook the noodles. I wish I was in a position to turn him down, but my aching hunger is too powerful to ignore. I guess I'll figure out the balance of things later, once I can think properly. For now, I just need to eat, and then I need to sleep.

  "There's even this if you fancy some," he says, grabbing a half-empty bottle of whiskey and holding it out to me. "It's a cheap supermarket brand, I grant you, but beggars can't be choosers and -"

  "No thanks," I say, keen to set some boundaries. I reach into my pocket, just to make sure that I still have the knife. I do.

  "You sure? I'm not offering the whole bottle. Just a shot."

  I shake my head. Above, there's the sound of women's voices coming from one of the other rooms.

  "Not much of a drinker, eh?" Simeon asks.

  "I've never really..." I pause as I realize that I probably shouldn't admit that I've never tried alcohol; it'll add to the impression that I'm out of my depth. "I need to keep a clear head," I continue, hoping that I've managed to provide a decent cover story. "The last thing I need is a hangover, right?"

  "Wise woman," he replies, putting the bottle away. "I think I'll heed your advice for tonight. Speaking of which, that's something I should warn you about." As the water comes to a boil, he drops a block of noodles in to cook. "Addiction, Katie. It's the most dangerous thing in this whole city. Well, apart from the water, maybe. But seriously, if you get addicted to something - whether it's drugs or booze or whatever - it'll be the fucking end of you. This city is filled with people whose lived are being ruined by addiction, and it's not only the ones living on the streets, either. There's plenty of arses in business suits who snort coke at the weekend and think they're above it all, but they're just as bad as the rest and their time'll come."

  "I'm not addicted to anything," I tell him.

  "Yeah," he replies, "you are."

  "What?"

  "Hope."

  "Hope?" I stare at him. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Finding your sister," he continues. "You're addicted to the hope that you'll find her and that everything'll be okay."

  I pause, trying to work out what he means. I want to tell him that he's wrong, but there's a small voice in the back of my head that worries he might be telling the truth.

  "You're also addicted to an idea of yourself," he continues. "You see yourself tracking your sister down and living happily ever after. I can see it in your eyes, Katie. You came to London with some kind of big dream about you and her being together, and now, even though you can't find her, you're clinging to that hope. Like an addict, you keep telling yourself that it'll all be okay, but if you're not careful, you'll follow that hope straight into a blind alley."

  "I'm not addicted to hope," I reply, "I just want to find her so we can help each other. If she's missing, she might be hurt. I have to help her."

  "And that's a very noble idea." He pauses. "What's her name, again?"

  "Rachel."

  "Rachel. Nice." He pauses again. "You can't go chasing Rachel forever. Some day, if you can't find her, you need to let her go. If she turns up later, that's a fucking bonus, but if you allow yourself to remain addicted to that vision of your life, you'll lose all your other options. I know for a fact that advice like this doesn't always get through, but I've got to tell you the truth, Katie. I like you, and I wanna help you, but if you refuse to listen to me, then there's nothing more I can do."

  I want to tell him that he's wrong, and to insist that I'll find Rachel, but I can't help feeling that I'd just sound like some kind of naive kid. Instead, I watch as he rescues the noodles from the boiling water and serves them on a plate for me before adding some sauces and garnish. There's something kind of sweet about all the effort he's going to, and I'm starting to feel that my earlier suspicions were probably way off base. After all, why would he go to so much trouble for someone he's never met? If he was going to turn nasty or make demands, I'm pretty sure he'd have done it by now, so I guess I must have just been lucky and bumped into someone decent.

  "We'll talk more tomorrow," he says as he places the noodles on a nearby table. "I'm sorry, Katie. I didn't mean t
o pressure you or make you feel bad. There's totally a chance that you'll find your sister. I just didn't want to see you get your hopes up and then..." He pauses. "Eat. I'll sort a bed out for you, and then I'll introduce you to the others."

  "I heard voices earlier," I tell him. "Who are they?"

  "Just some other lost souls who've congregated here," he replies. "Don't worry, though. They're good people, and they've been where you are right now. They'll see you right. Hell, they'll probably be more helpful than me!"

  "So this is like..." I pause for a moment. "Like a squat?"

  "Something like that," he replies with a faint smile. "It's a system that works for us, anyway. I'm sure you'll fit in just fine."

  Once he's left the room, I take a seat at the table and start to devour the noodles. It seems like such a long time ago that I first arrived in London, and tomorrow morning seems equally far away. Right now, all that matters is that I get these noodles in my belly so that I can stop feeling so goddamn hungry, and then I need to sleep. Last night I was in an underpass, but tonight I'm going to have an actual bed, and hopefully I won't be wet and cold, and tomorrow I'll find Rachel. I just know it. I can feel it in my heart. Things are slowly starting to look up.

  As I sit alone in the dark room and eat my noodles, in the distance the sirens seem to be getting louder and faster.

  Chapter Four

  Rachel

  When I push my hand gently against the front door, I find that it's locked. Annoying, but not particularly surprising.

  Taking a step back, I look up into the rain just in time to see a light being turned on in one of the upstairs rooms. I imagine Moorgrave is planning to stay inside and just wait things out for a while. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the poor guy has been through a hell of an evening. It was probably a little cruel of me to do that trick with the knife, but then again, he was stalking me, so I figure he was fair game. Either way, I did what I did, and now I want to follow through.

  Something strange is happening to me, and I need to test my boundaries.

  Making my way along the street, I spot someone walking toward me, hurrying through the rain. I wait until the figure, a woman, is close enough, and then I decide to test a theory.

  "Nice night," I say with a smile.

  The woman glances at me and smiles cautiously, but she hurries on without saying anything. Turning, I watch as she crosses the road and goes into one of the houses opposite. To be honest, I wasn't convinced that she'd be able to see or hear me, since I've been feeling as if I'm somehow in another world tonight. Reaching out, I run a hand along the soaking, rain-battered roof of a nearby car, and I feel the cold surface against my skin. I'm definitely not dead, at least not in the conventional sense, and yet I feel like a ghost.

  "I'm coming for you, Moorgrave," I whisper, and I can't help but hope that somehow he might be able to hear my voice.

  Making my way down an alley at the end of the road, I soon find myself around the back of the row of houses. Counting along from the end, I eventually reach a small fence with a gate that has been left open, and I realize that this is definitely Moorgrave's back garden. I step through, splashing through the puddles that have gathered in the concrete path leading to the back door. With every step, I imagine Moorgrave feeling more and more terrified, and I'd like to think that in some way he knows I'm here.

  "Moorgrave," I whisper again as I reach the door.

  I pause as rain continues to pour down with such intensity that it's almost hard to keep my eyes open.

  Reaching out, I grab the door handle and turn it, and to my surprise I find that the door clicks open. Sometimes, I feel as if an external force is arranging things for me, helping to guide me past obstacles; either that, or Moorgrave's so scared that in his blind panic he managed to forget to secure the house properly. Either way, I push the door open and stare into the dark kitchen, before stepping inside and finally getting out of the rain. I stand for a moment, dripping onto the mat, as I listen to the sounds of the dark house, but there's no sign of anyone being up and about. I'm sure Moorgrave must still be awake, but with the sound of the rain outside, I guess he hasn't heard me yet.

  I'm my own ghost.

  I push the door shut carefully, and that's when I realize that I don't really have much of a plan. On my way over here, I had this vague idea that I was going to do something to terrify the poor little bastard, but now that I'm standing in his dark kitchen, I figure that I need to come up with something a little more deliberate. As if to prove my point, there's a sudden creaking sound from upstairs, and I realize that Moorgrave just got into bed. Smiling, I decide that my best bet is just to go and face him, and enjoy the look on his face when he realizes that the woman he murdered has come back to haunt him.

  Slowly, I make my way through to the hallway.

  Chapter Five

  Katie

  "Izzy's been here for six months," Simeon says, standing back with a smile. "She's a good girl. She'll show you around."

  I smile politely, but this Izzy girl is eying me with deep suspicion. We're in a darkened room at the rear of the building, with the only light coming from a few candles placed on an old-fashioned chest of drawers by the far wall. Despite Simeon's constant good mood, Izzy seems distinctly unhappy to see me: she's about my age, with dyed blonde hair that's already showing thick black roots, and she's wearing a leather jacket that's a couple of sizes too large. Frankly, I've never met anyone who looks quite so rough, but I keep reminding myself that I shouldn't judge people based on their appearances. For all I know, Izzy might be as nice as Simeon.

  "Go on then," Simeon says, grabbing one of Izzy's hands and then one of mine, before pressing them together. "Say hello, girls."

  "Hello," Izzy says darkly, her unblinking eyes fixed on me.

  "Hi," I reply, trying and sort-of succeeding in my attempt to shake her ice-cold hand. "I'm Katie."

  "Yeah," she mutters. "Simeon said that."

  "Katie was in the same boat as you," Simeon continues, patting Izzy on the back as if he's trying to get her to smile. "I happened to bump into her last night, and then today we got together again and, well, the rest is history. She's looking for her sister, so I told her she could crash here for a while. It's better than sleeping out there, right?" He turns to me. "Where'd you sleep last night, anyway?"

  "An underpass," I tell him.

  "Fucking hell, that's rough. I bet it was cold, yeah?"

  I nod.

  "I slept in one of them once," he continues, "and it wasn't my finest night's accommodation, I can tell you that. Some of 'em seem like they're designed to funnel the wind down and just try to blast the skin off your bones." He grins. "But at least you're not down there tonight, eh? I admit that this isn't the fucking Hilton, but there's a roof over your head, and with the way the weather's going again, you'd have been at risk of hypothermia if you'd stayed out much longer." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "You're soaking," he adds. "Izzy can probably rustle up some spare togs for you."

  "Can I?" Izzy replies darkly, still staring at me.

  "Be a doll," Simeon replies, with a hint of grit in his voice. "Find Katie something to wear that's not forming ice crystals as we speak."

  "What's going on out there?" Izzy asks as she slopes over to the chest of drawers and starts sorting through various items. "It sounds like World War Three. Is it terrorists?"

  "Kinda," Simeon replies. "It's the worst kind of terrorists. Rich, capitalist terrorists using money instead of guns and bombs to fuck this town up."

  "You're such a revolutionary," Izzy replies drily, rolling her eyes.

  "It's that dam, yeah?" he continues. "They've spent billions on the fucking thing, and so far all it's good for is shitting up the water supply. I mean, fuck knows what they're playing at, but tonight it keeps making these loud booming sounds. Some people've got more money than sense."

  "Loud booming sounds?" Izzy asks. "Like it's blowing up?"

  "More like it
's falling down," he replies. "I mean, fuck, there was nothing wrong with the Thames, so why do they have to go and try to 'improve' it? What does that mean, anyway? It's just meddling, that's all. A river's a river, and it doesn't need messing with. Mark my words, someone somewhere is raking in the cash while the rest of the city suffers."

  "Here," Izzy says, throwing a t-shirt at me, followed by a jumper and then finally a pair of jeans. "I'm guessing your size, but they should be about right. If they're not, there's nothing I can do about it."

  "Change into those," Simeon says, "and we can hang your old clothes up to dry overnight."

  "You can't keep them," Izzy says. "They're mine, so I'm lending them to you, but I want them back. And they're not free to borrow, either. You'll owe me for each of them, but we can work that out later."

  I smile politely, even though I don't really like the idea of owing her anything.

  "There's a screen in the corner," Simeon says, leading me over to an old-fashioned four-paneled room divider lurking incongruously on the far side of the room. "I think it's an antique, probably worth a few bob, but it'll give you some privacy if that's what you're after."

  Stepping behind the screen, I start peeling my wet clothes off. I double-check that Simeon has gone back over to Izzy, before stripping naked and using the dry part of my trousers to pat down the wet parts of my body. Still feeling cold, I finally start to slip into the clothes that Izzy let me borrow; they don't fit particularly well and they smell a little fusty, but at least they're dry, although I can't help worrying that maybe they're infested with fleas or something else. They also seems to be very old, almost as if they're from the seventies. Reminding myself that I'm not in a position to argue, however, I gather up my wet clothes and hang them on a nearby railing, hoping that they'll be dry by the morning. As I do so, I glance back at Simeon and Izzy and see that they're deep in a hushed conversation, seemingly keeping their voices deliberately low so that I can't hear them.