Face of Evil Read online

  “Well we can hardly return to the scene of the crime,” says Lydia, jerking her head back towards the door. “And I think you owe me a drink. As well as—”

  “Let’s start with a drink.”

  “Not gonna welch on our deal, are you?” Lydia looks pointedly at him.

  “Come on,” he replies, already walking away. Lydia’s eyes narrow, but she follows without pushing it further.

  *

  The bar at the Marriott is contemporary; half sports, half not, big screens inside, fire pits and square sofas outside. Tonight, there’s a game on, so it’s pretty full. Lydia and Alex are perched on tall, round, red stools nursing near-spent drinks.

  “How about a game?” Lydia suggests. “Since we’re in a sports bar.”

  “What kind of game?” asks Alex, warily.

  “Who can get the most phone numbers in thirty minutes,” says Lydia, a twinkle in her eye.

  “You’ll win that easily,” says Alex, dismissively.

  “Well thank you,” says Lydia, accepting the accidental compliment. “But let’s play anyway. It’ll give you a chance to practise your people skills.”

  “Alright,” says Alex, “what are the stakes?”

  “Stakes?”

  “I find sports a lot more interesting when I have something riding on them,” says Alex.

  “Whatever you like,” says Lydia, waving a hand.

  “Deal,” says Alex quickly, grinning. “Whoever wins has to give the other whatever they like.”

  “We already played that game. I won, remember?”

  “Double or quits.”

  “Hey I didn’t agree…” Lydia begins, but Alex is already making a beeline for an older woman sitting by herself at a table. “Fine,” she says, scanning the room for her first target. For the next half hour, the two of them circle the room, stopping every few minutes to make flirtatious small talk with anyone who will listen. Once time is up, they rendezvous back at the bar.

  “How many do you have?” asks Lydia, with almost childlike excitement.

  “Two,” says Alex.

  “Six!” Lydia thrusts her hands into the air. “I win!”

  “Congratulations,” says Alex, sarcastically. “What do you want then?”

  “Hmm…” Lydia considers for a moment. “I think I want… another drink.”

  “I think you’ve had enough,” says Alex.

  “But I didn’t even tell you what kind of drink I want,” says Lydia, sulkily.

  “Fine,” says Alex, “what kind of drink do you want?”

  “Water please,” she calls to the bartender. “Oh, and another whisky!”

  Alex rolls his eyes. “Make it two whiskies.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Lydia, giving his arm a squeeze.

  “For what?” asks Alex.

  “That you’re such a loser.”

  “That depends on your point of view, I guess,” says Alex.

  “What do you mean?” asks Lydia, peering at him through her blonde curls.

  “Well,” says Alex, “I got the information I needed, and I got to know you a little better.” He smiles at her. “I’d call that a win, to be honest.”

  Lydia peers into his soft, brown eyes as the bartender sets up their drinks. “You’re cute,” she says finally, pinching Alex’s cheek before picking up her whisky and tossing it back in one go.

  “Alright,” says Alex, blushing, “you’ve definitely had enough now.”

  “You know what?” says Lydia, leaning into him. “This is the most fun I’ve had in forever.”

  “You don’t have a lot of fun writing about murderous assholes?” asks Alex, feigning surprise. “That is a shock. I’m shocked.”

  “That is fun actually,” says Lydia defensively. “Or well, interesting at least. But I meant more like… I don’t have fun with people. You know?”

  “Yeah,” says Alex, nodding. “Me neither.” He picks up his own whisky and sinks it. “I hate people.”

  “Why is that?” Lydia props her elbow on the bar and her cheek on her hand, peering up at him. “What’s your story, Alex Gilbey?”

  “I don’t know,” Alex shrugs, “I don’t think I have a story. Least not much of one.”

  “Everyone has a story,” says Lydia, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  “I mean I’ve seen what I’ve seen, and done what I’ve done,” says Alex, fighting his intoxication to find the right words. “But ain’t no rhyme or reason to it. No thread. No sense. You know?”

  “Not really,” says Lydia.

  “Maybe I’m just weird,” says Alex, looking away. “Or maybe I’m just drunk.”

  “Or maybe both,” says Lydia, taking his hand and smiling sympathetically. “But hey what do I know? I spend my days hanging out with psychos.”

  “Is that your story?” asks Alex, looking back at her.

  “Eh…” says Lydia softly. “I have a lot of stories, but none of them ever end well.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I guess life just has it in for me,” says Lydia, sadly.

  “Maybe you just need to take control of your own story?” Alex offers. “You know, be the… what do they call it? The leader?”

  “Protagonist?” Lydia offers.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “After what you’ve seen tonight,” says Lydia, one eyebrow raised, “you think I’m too passive?”

  “Maybe not passive, exactly…”

  “Trust me,” says Lydia, her eyes floating around the room. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve done.”

  “Yeah, well,” says Alex, “there’s doing things, and then there’s doing things for yourself, isn’t there?”

  “This is depressing,” says Lydia suddenly. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Alex. “I get maudlin when I drink.” He thinks for a moment. “Alright, how about another game?”

  Lydia perks up. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Did you ever play ‘Would you rather’?” asks Alex.

  “Uh, yeah,” says Lydia, “at school.”

  “Let’s play.”

  Lydia looks dubious. “You first.”

  “Okay,” says Alex. “Would you rather… know you’re going to die in ten years’ time, or live forever?”

  “Live forever,” says Lydia without hesitation.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely! You’d never have to worry about dying; never have to worry about wasting time or running out of it. You’d have forever to do all the things you want to do.”

  “But everyone you cared about would die,” says Alex. “Don’t you think you’d be lonely?”

  Lydia thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “Hey, that was a pretty morbid question.”

  “I told you I get maudlin when I drink,” he replies. “Your turn.”

  “Hmm…” Lydia thinks hard. “Would you rather… know where you’re going to die, or how you’re going to die?”

  “How,” says Alex after a moment’s thought. “Because you’d be less paranoid probably.”

  “Me too,” says Lydia.

  “Hey that was a pretty morbid question,” Alex teases.

  “I’m just following your lead. Anyway, it’s your turn.”

  “Would you rather… drink spiced rum or vomit?”

  “Vomit,” says Lydia, completely deadpan. “Without a doubt.”

  “You’re so stubborn,” Alex laughs.

  “Shit,” says Lydia, catching sight of a clock on the wall, “is that really the time? I’d better go. I have an early start tomorrow.” She slips from the stool and starts pulling on her leather jacket.

  “I’ll get us a cab,” says Alex, rising with her.

  “It’s okay,” says Lydia, “I can get my own.”

  “This isn’t your city,” says Alex holding her by the arm gently, as he tips her chin up to meet him, “and I want to make sure you get back in one piece. I won’t sleep otherwise.”


  Lydia looks up into his eyes, those big, brown eyes, and she can’t help but blush. It’s been a long time since she experienced the feeling of having someone who wanted to look after her, and she likes it. But a quiet voice in the back of her mind is wondering what Alex Gilbey really wants. They all want something.

  Eleven

  The Sun’s Cold Rise

  Lydia stares up at the faded, off-white ceiling, her head both buzzing and pounding, every painful throb loaded with regret. Every rattling breath feels like an effort. The room is roasting hot. She feels like her skin is about to catch fire, steaming, soaking the sheets with sweat that cools and makes her shiver. When she moves, her bones feel like they might snap. Everything at the periphery of her vision is out of focus, shimmering in the dusty sunlight that sneaks in through ill-fitting curtains.

  Nausea churns violently in her stomach and she panics, rolling to the edge of the bed and letting her legs fall out. Her feet hit the thick carpet with a soft thump. This isn’t her hotel room with its thin, worn-out floor. Where is she? She scans the room, heart pumping so fiercely it makes her vision swim in pulses, the rhythm of her pain.

  A clock radio on the bedside table shows ten twenty-one. There’s somewhere she needs to be. Lydia tries to remember. Mortem. Jason. Two o’clock. She needs to get back to the hotel and straighten herself out. Sober and clear-headed, Jason Devere had got the better of her. In this state…

  Lydia swivels her sore neck around and sees a foot protruding from the sheets at the far corner of the bed. With a soft groan, she shifts her body and turns the other way to find the back of Alex’s head half-buried in a pillow, fast asleep. He looks so at peace, the opposite of how she feels. Next to him on his bedside table, a tatty piece of paper bearing what is unmistakably her handwriting. As her eyes slowly focus, Lydia recognises it as a list of songs. She remembers. She wrote down her favourite songs in the cab on the way home. She cringes at the adolescence of it even as she deciphers the drunken scrawl.

  ‘Under My Skin’, Frank Sinatra

  ‘Mr Sandman’, Nan Vernon version

  ‘If I Can Dream’, Elvis

  ‘Come Get Your Love’, Redbone

  ‘Only You’, Elvis

  ‘Hooked on a Feeling’, Blue Swede

  ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, Queen

  ‘I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire’, Ink Spots

  If she heard any of those songs at this moment, Lydia thinks, she would hate them for the rest of her days. How could she have been so stupid? This isn’t her.

  Focus, she tells herself, closing her eyes. First things first. Get the hell out of here.

  As gently as she can manage in her unbalanced state, Lydia eases herself up off the bed, snatches what clothes she recognises, including her heels, and creeps to the bedroom door. Before she leaves, she takes one last look at the man in the bed, still dead to the world. Was he her conquest, or she his? Some small part of her knows that this is a ridiculous distinction to care about in a moment like this. But to Lydia, it matters. To Lydia, it always matters.

  Twelve

  Quiet Minds

  Jason Devere is bound to his cold steel throne with heavy chains, observed by two guards facing him in the corners of the stark room. He shifts his weight lazily and lifts his head to peer through greasy hair at the clock on the wall as the second hand ticks rhythmically towards two o’clock. He licks his lips in anticipation.

  On the stroke of two, as if summoned by the clock, Lydia sweeps breezily into the room, wearing a sleek black suit over a white blouse and carrying a blue box. Jason’s lips twist into a grin when he sees her. Lydia does not say a word to the guards or even acknowledge them, but they animate together like statues given life and walk to the door. Lydia waits until they are gone, then crosses the floor to the chair on the opposite side of the table to Jason’s, her high heels clicking on the polished floor and echoing around the bare walls. Eyes fixed on Jason; she places the blue box on the table, and takes her seat.

  “I’ve been thinking,” says Lydia casually, taking her phone from her bag, tapping the screen and setting it down on the table, “about how this is going to end. Who is going to win this little game of ours?” She watches Jason, but beyond the smirk playing around the edge of his mouth he shows her no reaction. “Maybe you?” she continues. “Maybe me? Maybe we will both be winners. Or both losers. Who knows?”

  “You’re persistent,” says Jason, amused, “I’ll give you that.”

  Lydia smiles at him pleasantly. “Did you get the items you requested?”

  “I did!” Jason replies, cheerily. “My penmanship is becoming a sight to behold.” He raises his manacled hands with a clatter and mimes writing in the air with long, elegant strokes.

  “Good,” says Lydia. “So, today I thought we would try something different.”

  “Variety is the spice of life,” says Jason, with another wave of his hands. He seems in good spirits today, Lydia thinks. Is it genuine, or an act? And if an act, to what purpose? Only one way to find out.

  “As you can see, I’ve brought something with me.” She motions to the blue box with an open palm. “A gift.”

  “What kind of gift?” asks Jason, peering at the box curiously.

  “You’ll find out,” says Lydia, “if you answer one simple question for me.” She holds up a lily-white finger.

  “Which is?” asks Jason.

  “Why do you kill?” asks Lydia, simply.

  Jason considers the question for a moment, then shrugs his shoulders. “Fish gotta swim,” he says, brazenly.

  “I need a better answer than that, Jason,” says Lydia. Her voice is measured, calm. She sees the flash in his eyes and it gives her a warm feeling of triumph in her heart.

  “It’s my nature,” says Jason, as if forcing himself. “I’m just not like other people.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Lydia asks, flipping open her notebook.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Jason sits back, his chains clinking. “Suppose I wasn’t wired up the same as the rest of you.”

  “You think you were born this way?” Lydia asks, a note of scepticism in her voice.

  “Yeah,” Jason replies. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Well,” says Lydia, scratching her nose with her pen, “in all my years studying people like you, I’ve never found one I thought was born evil.”

  “Yeah?” Jason asks, as if only mildly curious.

  “Their behaviour is always caused by some sort of trigger,” says Lydia, peering at Jason and pursing her scarlet lips just a little.

  “In your opinion,” says Jason, politely.

  “Let’s not play games anymore, Jason,” says Lydia with a demure smile. “I told you there were only a few different ways this could end. Why don’t you help me to help you?”

  “And just how do you propose to do that?” asks Jason, leaning towards her.

  “Tell me what you’re hiding,” says Lydia, calm yet forceful.

  “I’m not hiding anything,” Jason growls softly. “Not anymore.”

  “I see,” says Lydia, frostily. She slides the blue box towards her, opens the lid and begins to retrieve items from within, lining them up neatly on the table between herself and Jason. A creased photograph, a comb, a mirror, and a silver, heart-shaped locket inlaid with sapphires. Jason eyes them greedily. He licks his lips. “Your personal effects,” says Lydia. “As requested.”

  Jason can’t help himself. He lunges across the table and there’s a loud clang as his steel chains hold him back. He snarls in frustration.

  “You see, Jason,” says Lydia, unmoved, “I always keep my word. If you keep yours, there’s a lot that I can do for you.” Jason doesn’t answer, but stares at her, seething, his eyes fierce behind that matted curtain of hair. “Now tell me,” says Lydia, “what is the significance of these items to you?”

  Again, Jason remains silent. Lydia nods and turns her head slightly towards the observation window without actually looking at it. A mome
nt later, a fire alarm bursts into life, filling the room with an unbearable cacophony. Lydia doesn’t flinch. She is expecting it. But Jason jerks upright in his chair, his wild eyes flying straight to the silver locket.

  Lydia holds up one hand, and the alarm ceases immediately. “Thank you, Jason,” she says, with a small smile. He looks confused and furious. “Upon hearing an alarm,” Lydia explains, “a person will usually look to the thing most important to them. Like a loved one,” she reaches out and picks up the locket, “or a prized possession. So tell me.” She meets his burning gaze and dangles the locket in the air by its silver chain. “Why is this so important to you?”

  Jason stares at the locket as it swings lazily back and forth, jewels glimmering and dancing even in this harsh, artificial light. He looks transfixed. “It was my mother’s,” he says finally.

  “Was?” says Lydia. “Is your mother gone?”

  “She’s…” Jason grits his teeth. “She’s in the hospital.”

  “Why is she in the hospital?” asks Lydia. Jason doesn’t answer. He seems to be lost in his own thoughts. “She fell down the stairs, didn’t she, Jason?” Lydia prompts, gently.

  “Yes,” says Jason quietly. “While I was in here.”

  “She used to visit you in here, didn’t she?” asks Lydia. Her voice is quiet, warm, empathetic.

  “Yes,” says Jason. “But she can’t now.”

  “Tell me why this locket means so much to you,” says Lydia, placing it gently down on the table and pushing it towards him. Within his reach. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes it, holds it, runs his fingers over it. Just for a second, Lydia sees Jason Devere’s mask slip, and there is a completely different man sitting across from her. But then just as quickly the other side of him is back. “Why does it mean so much to you, Jason?” Lydia asks again.

  “It just does,” says Jason, flatly. Lydia half turns towards the window again, and within seconds the two guards burst into the room, making straight for Jason and slamming his face down on the table, his arms pinned behind his back. “Get off me!” He growls. One of the guards wrenches the locket from his shaking fingers and throws it back to Lydia. “Give it back,” Jason spits, resisting his captors with all of his might even though it is hopeless.