Face of Evil Page 7

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” says Lydia, sliding the object onto the table, visible but still guarded by those scarlet talons. It’s a bar of chocolate. Jason stares at it for a few seconds, confused, then he laughs and shakes his head.

  “You’re a funny girl, Lyd.”

  “Why’s that?” asks Lydia, innocently.

  “You think you can get inside my head?” says Jason. “With pretty eyes and props?”

  “Tell me about your childhood, Jason,” Lydia asks again.

  “Alright, alright,” he says, tugging his manacled wrists away from the table in a gesture that Lydia interprets as frustration. “You want to know about my family?” He mimics Lydia’s voice. “My parents? My brother?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Well, here it is,” says Jason, leaning onto the table and speaking in a low, animated voice as though relating a thrilling tale. “My parents got themselves into a load of debt, so they sold my brother to the mob to pay—”

  “I think I’ve heard this one before,” says Lydia, pretending to search her recollection. “Oh yes, didn’t it get three stars in this morning’s newspaper?”

  Jason grins and leans back again, his hands raised as far as his restraints allow. “You got me.”

  “Look, Jason,” says Lydia in a bored sort of way, “I’ve come a long way to see you, but if you’re not going to cooperate, there are plenty of other lunatics I could write a book about.”

  Jason’s grin fades. For one mad moment, Lydia thinks he might make a lunge for her. But then he glances down, as if lowering a small degree of the façade he was previously wearing.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your brother?” says Lydia, pressing her advantage.

  “What about him?”

  “I heard that he died,” says Lydia, forcefully.

  “Yeah, so what?” Jason snaps defensively, yanking at his chains again, so hard this time that the iron bolts securing the table to the floor creak.

  “So that must have been very upsetting for you,” says Lydia, softening her tone a little.

  “It was.” Jason glares at her. Lydia thinks for a moment that his eyes have turned more blue, like ice. It must be the cool lighting in the room.

  “How do you feel about it now?” she asks. Jason shrugs. “You don’t feel anything about it?” Lydia persists, clearly dubious.

  “People come and go every day,” Jason turns away and replies, matter-of-factly. “My brother drew the short straw, that’s all. It was his turn. That’s life.”

  “Some people would call that a very rational response,” Lydia suggests. The uneven grin spreads across Jason’s face again. He’s taken it as a compliment. Lydia purses her lips to suppress her satisfaction.

  “Yeah, well,” he says, “maybe I’m the only rational guy left in this mad world.”

  “Maybe you are,” says Lydia, offering him a smile. A treat for the good boy. “How did he die?” she asks quickly.

  “He fell,” Jason replies, just as quickly. The words are out of his mouth before his grin has had a chance to fade.

  “From where?”

  “From the bridge.”

  “You were there?”

  “Of course I was,” says Jason, clearly irritated. “It was right next to our house, we always played there. Our mother told us not to, but we did.”

  “How did he fall?” Lydia asks.

  “We were fighting,” says Jason, his dirty, shaggy hair falling over his face. “Not for real fighting, just playing, you know. And I guess we got too close to the edge, and the next thing I knew I was falling.”

  Lydia hesitates. “You fell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You both fell?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Jason scowls at her. Lydia raises her eyebrows as she puts pen to notepad. “You don’t believe me?” Jason growls. Lydia remembers Alex’s words. He’s an animal.

  “I believe you,” she says.

  “I got the scar to prove it,” says Jason, twisting in his chair and pulling up his dirty shirt to reveal a nasty scar about five inches long. “Hit a rock on the riverbed,” he says, seemingly pleased by the disconcerted look on Lydia’s face. “Needed ten stitches.” He lets the shirt fall and sits straight in his seat again. “Fin wasn’t so fortunate.”

  Lydia looks right at Jason, who moistens his lips with a few flicks of his tongue, and smiles. “Do you blame yourself?” she asks as he clenches his jaw.

  “It was an accident.”

  “Did your mother blame you?”

  Jason’s eyes narrow. Lydia meets them with her best bland expression, as though she had just asked if he would like a cup of tea.

  “Yeah,” says Jason. “Yeah, she did. How did you know that?”

  “How did that make you feel?” Lydia asks, ignoring his question.

  “It didn’t make me feel anything,” says Jason quietly, looking. That’s the truth, Lydia thinks to herself. There was more to explore here, she realised, but which nerve to trigger?

  “And was this before or after your father left?” she asks in a casual manner, making a show of taking notes on her pad again.

  “What difference does that make?” Jason snaps.

  “Did he leave because of what happened to Finley?”

  “How should I know? I was just a kid.”

  “Did he leave because of what you did?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Jason slams his manacles down on the table with a crash, causing Lydia to drop her pen and lean sharply away from him, and the guard in the room next door to get to his feet.

  “Did you love your brother?” Lydia asks, tilting her head to peer into Jason’s eyes, half hidden by his matted hair.

  “Of course I did,” he replies, metal scraping on metal as his manacled hands slide from the table. “I’m not a monster.”

  “And your father?” asks Lydia.

  “Yes.”

  “Even after he walked out on you?”

  “Love is unconditional,” Jason replies, eyes down, hands in his lap. This answer takes Lydia by surprise.

  “So you understand love?” she asks, after a moment. Jason slowly raises his head to look at her, his lips widening into a smile. Then he laughs. “What’s so funny?” asks Lydia, shortly.

  “You’ve no idea what to make of me, do you?”

  “I’m not here to diagnose you, Jason,” Lydia replies, coolly.

  “That’s a shame,” says Jason. “I’d quite like a second opinion. Not convinced the docs around here are up to much.”

  He’s enjoying himself, Lydia thinks. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  “Go on,” says Jason. “Just for fun, tell me what you think.”

  “Alright,” says Lydia, hotly. Her temper is getting the better of her. She knows she should pull back but giving in feels so satisfying. “You blame yourself for your brother’s death, and for your father leaving, but you repressed those feelings for so long that they exploded violently when you killed those people.”

  “Wrong,” said Jason, forcefully.

  “Your mother blames you too,” Lydia continues, “and you know it, and it makes you wonder if she loves you, if she ever really loved you.”

  “Nope.” Jason shakes his head.

  “You have all these feelings tearing you up inside,” Lydia leans on the table now, pressing her point home, “but you never learned how to deal with them, like a normal person would. You only know one way to express yourself and that’s—”

  “You.” Jason interrupts. Lydia stares at him. “You’re talking about yourself.”

  “Excuse me?” Lydia looks like she’s been slapped.

  “You’re the one with the repressed guilt, Lydia Tune. You’re the one who doesn’t know how to deal with her feelings. It’s plain as day.” He sounds bored, as if he’s had enough of this conversation.

  “You don’t know—” Lydia begins.

  “I know all about you,” Jason corrects her, impatiently. “
Do you think I would have agreed to meet without knowing all about you?”

  “That’s not possible,” says Lydia.

  “You had your heart broken, am I right?” Jason asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “And I’m not talking in the romantic sense. You’re running away from your pain; you’ve been running a long time, searching for answers in people like me.”

  “You’re raving,” Lydia snaps.

  “You may be this big celebrity, but you’re bitterly disappointed with the way your life has turned out and you don’t know how to fix it, so you keep writing books about people you consider more damaged than you in the hope that it’ll make you feel better, or lead you to some epiphany about how to save yourself. Well it won’t,” Jason bitterly remarks, noting the angry expression on Lydia’s face.

  “We’re done for today,” she says flatly, sweeping her phone and notebook into her bag.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” says Jason, “have I hurt your feelings?”

  “Not at all,” Lydia replies, rising and sweeping her golden locks back over her shoulder. “You’re obviously tired. We can continue this tomorrow.”

  “Oh no, please stay!” says Jason, sarcastically. “I felt like we were really connecting.”

  “Yeah?” says Lydia. “What else are you feeling right now?” She slides the chocolate bar across the table. Jason covers it with his hand.

  “Pity,” Jason says, seriously.

  “For me?” asks Lydia, equal parts amused and outraged.

  “Absolutely,” says Jason. “At least I know what I am. You’re still in denial.”

  “Even if that were true,” says Lydia, swinging her bag over her shoulder, “and it’s not, I wouldn’t warrant your pity, Jason. After all, I’m the one who gets to walk out this door.”

  “Well now,” Jason growls, leaning over the table towards her, “that just shows how wrong you really are.” He fixes her with a smile. “Have you not considered that maybe I’m exactly where I want to be?”

  Lydia doesn’t answer. Instead she turns away to hide her face. If Jason sees that she’s confused, he has won. She can’t stop him from playing games, but she mustn’t let him win. She crosses to the exit, the knock of those high heels echoing around the empty room.

  “Goodbye, Jason,” she says, pushing the heavy metal door open. The last thing she hears before it closes behind her is laughter. Cruel, cackling, triumphant laughter.

  Nine

  Blood Stone

  An empty husk of a woman cradles her legs amidst bundled bed sheets, soaked in self-loathing. She will find no comfort in herself, alone in this dark room. No soothing words or warm hugs to nurse her wounded pride. She is sick of the people, all of them, their vanity, their noise. Sick of this act. Sick of this life.

  Her spine juts out from her curved back, her weary skin melting from her bones as time, like a fire, consumes it. Eyes glazed over, eyelids drooping, unblinking. Is she human, she wonders, or something less than that? Is this normal?

  The words of a monster, a murderer, ring in her ears, slice through her like knives, finding old wounds long forgotten. Scar tissue buried beneath decades of pain and anguish. She fixates on the wall opposite, where the last watered-down slivers of daylight have slipped through a gap in the heavy curtains. What comes next? What does she want?

  At the edge of her consciousness floats an idea, unformed, uncapturable. The dream of another life. The taste of happiness. Every time she reaches for it, it dissipates like smoke. There’s something more she needs to do. But what? Helplessness blankets her like a heavy duvet, smothering, suffocating, rendering her incapable of movement. Paralysed in her own mind.

  Images flicker in her mind’s eye, like a reel of old, grainy film. A baby in the arms of a beautiful woman, both of them bathed in golden light. Long, blonde hair, fresh face, a loving smile but such sad, green eyes. The light fades and shimmers, grows darker, orange like fire. And now the baby is a little girl, maybe eight years old, standing in a doorway, tears in her eyes. A man stands before her, his back turned, naked, ruddy skin covered with thick, black hair, muscles tensed. He raises his right arm, fist clenched, and the little girl screams. And suddenly Lydia is inside her body, screaming too, as the fist disappears with a sickening thump like a joint of meat hitting the floor. She sees her mother through her father’s legs, cowering in a heap on the floor, hiding her broken face. The memory hurt like a symphony of nightmares; her mother was too trusting, timid and willing to be blind to her father’s faults. That fact had always stained itself onto Lydia’s perception of how a woman should not be, even though she deeply loved her mother, her weaknesses included.

  The light pulses and fades again, almost to black. The little girl is a teenager, sixteen maybe, recognisably Lydia now. Kneeling on wet grass at the foot of a grave topped with a small bouquet of white lilies. A small, black granite headstone reads, “Rebecca Tune, 1960–1996. Beloved mother. Rest in peace.”

  In a blaze of hot, red light the scene changes again. An empty whisky bottle crashes into a wall, narrowly missing teenage Lydia’s head. She flinches and then glares. Daggers in her eyes, at the man who threw it. Her father yells something in her direction, foaming spittle spraying through the air, but in this dream state she cannot hear it. She sprints upstairs to her room, rips open a battered old wardrobe, and begins throwing clothes into a sports bag.

  She crosses to the nightstand, where a ruby ring lies next to a photograph of her mother. Her mother’s ring. Amidst the muted tones of this memory, it shines as bright as a red-hot star. Lydia picks it up tenderly and slips it on her finger for the first time. It is a perfect fit. She shivers as a warm sensation flows from her hand right through her body. She has never felt stronger or more in tune with the world around her. This is her touchstone, the moment she will always return to in times of doubt and difficulty. The moment she shed the part of herself that no longer felt right. Priest, her father’s name. Priest, the mark of the monster. She renounced it the day her mother passed. She didn’t want it. It was just the two of them now, bound by spirit, by blood, her own flesh tethered to the ethereal plane by this dark gem. The timid girl, Lydia Priest, was no more. Lydia Tune had arrived.

  The image flickers and dies, overwhelmed by Lydia’s waking consciousness. The voices in her head keep multiplying, evil words both real and imagined, conjured and remembered, calling to her in synchrony like a choir. Their voices growing, swelling, deafening, drowning.

  With great effort, she raises her hand before her face and gazes through acidic tears at the ruby ring upon it. The crystallised essence of a mother’s love, the only thing she has left to remember her by. Even in darkness it glows, as if the gem contains a life of its own. She is hypnotised, like the victim of a scarlet-eyed snake. To her, it contains the seed of her creation, a mirror of her beginning. The essence of herself. Her family. Her blood. The only voice that she wants or needs to hear: her mother’s. She strokes it tenderly with the side of her thumb as if it were the cheek of a lover.

  Keep going, her mother whispers. We’re almost there. We’ve come too far to give up now. Lydia nods, slowly, sombrely, a single tear forming in the corner of her eye. Never let them see your pain, chides the voice. She wipes the tear away and swallows her sadness just as she has a thousand times before. You are ready.

  “Yes,” she whispers as the last of the light is swallowed by the jewel’s black heart. “I am ready.”

  Ten

  Nobody’s Fault

  A boozy musk drifts around O’Neal’s bar, scattered with small, dim lamps and shady patrons. At the worn, wooden bar, Lydia is trying to fit in, wearing her black leather jacket over a red top, a tasteful black skirt and sturdy black boots. Nevertheless, her natural poise and golden curls attract ardent glances from all around.

  She has been here for almost an hour already, sipping neat whisky and indulging in one of her guilty pleasures: looking up old acquaintances on social media and extrapolating lives from profiles. Her conc
lusions are never generous. Getting lost inside the sad lives of others is her favourite way to ward off her own unhappiness. She swipes away from one profile with disgust and takes another drink, noticing as she does two men watching her by the emerald pool table. One says something to the other, then they both nod, and laugh, before returning to their game. To the other side of her, on a small, barely raised stage, a tired woman is slurring the words to a Nina Simone song.

  Lydia wonders why nobody has used the jukebox in the corner of the room to end the torment. Her ears ring with each screeching, misplaced note. As she contemplates doing it herself, a heavily tattooed man wearing a cheap, knitted cap enters the bar. A walking doodle. But when he removes it and mounts a bar stool, she catches sight of his pale blue eyes and feels warmth spread through her that has nothing to do with the whisky. Dangerous handsome, she thinks, returning to her phone. Some of the most terrible men she had studied for her books were the same. Perhaps that’s how they managed to hide their wickedness for so long. Dangerous handsome.

  “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” says a familiar voice nearby. Lydia looks up, surprised, to find Alex’s soft, brown eyes gazing back at her. He is wearing the same jacket from the other night over a plain white T-shirt.

  “Alex,” she says in a coy manner, hiding her surprise before realising she is actually strangely excited to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for my date,” Alex replies. Is he blushing? It’s difficult to tell in the low light.

  “Oh,” Lydia replies, airily, regaining control of herself. “First date?”

  “Yeah, friend of a friend at work. Her name’s Sarah.”

  “How nice,” says Lydia, taking another sip of whisky.

  “How about you?” asks Alex, sliding onto the seat next to her and gesturing to the bartender. “I thought you’d be locked in your hotel room, writing.”

  “Needed a break,” says Lydia, absently checking her phone again. She is irritated with Alex, but can’t tell exactly why. Perhaps the alcohol is pulling her emotions out of their comfort zone.