seemed, was flooded. Keane clenched his teeth, not too worried about the smell, and headed off to the toilets. He’d been in The King’s Arms years and years ago, back when he’d been a drinker and a smoker. He hadn’t been in a pub, he figured, for at least thirteen years—the entirety of the current millennium. Seemed like a long time, but he figured around thirty years old, give or take. When he got married? Was the last time his wedding reception?
Might well be.
He put the thought, tinged with regret and not a little pain, to one side as he pushed the door to the bathroom open and headed inside. He had to push hard, and as he did a second flood hit his feet; this time above his boots.
Should’ve worn waders.
Too late to do anything about it now. The insurance on the pub would pay for a refit. This wasn’t a mop-and-bucket job.
He saw the problem immediately. One of the toilets was utterly destroyed. Fragments of porcelain, large and small, sat in deep pools of murky water. It looked as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to the toilet bowl and cistern—a modern, square thing, he imagined, looking at the toilets in the other stalls.
Who the fuck would smash up a toilet just to flood the pub?
“Fuck it,” he said quietly to himself. He wasn’t the police, or the insurance investigator. And, he realized, he felt so goddamned low he could barely find it in himself to care one way or the other.
His job, his only job, was to get the water to the building turned off at the mains out on the road, and go to his next job. This wasn’t a fixer-upper. The insurance could sort this out. Satisfied enough, Keane turned back to the door. Just to the right of the door, a young girl’s corpse was nailed halfway up the tiled wall.
4
Sometimes, in the maw of the black dog, a depression can be so deep that thought and feelings can’t find their way loose. Some people call it a black dog, hounding them. Some people describe it as a pit, one that’s dark and dank and bottomless for those within, low enough that you can see nothing but a small pinprick of unattainable light far above.
Keane stared at the girl. Nothing more. He didn’t shriek or puke or shout or cry. Stared, took it all in. Almost like he was taking a photograph with his mind. Tucking it away for later nightmares.
She wore a white shirt and black trousers, like maybe she’d worked in the pub. Sensible black shoes that a girl wouldn’t wear unless she was restricted to boring footwear by regulations. Almost definitely worked in the pub. No rings (her hands, palms out, were clean and free of adornments). Nails, thick square long timber nails, had been driven, pounded, through her wrists.
The wounds were torn, and there was a lot of blood both up the arms of the girl’s white shirt, down the tiled wall, but not on the floor, because of the water. The water beneath the girl was a little rusty, maybe, from blood mingled with the shit-water.
She’d been nailed up, wrists first…less blood on her feet (nails through the ankle bones, it looked like—her feet and legs were twisted to one side). She’d bled a lot from the first wounds, less from the feet. Maybe unconscious by then. But not dead? A body didn’t bleed as much dead as alive.
Keane figured this as he stared at the body on the wall. Click, click, click. Each shot a nightmare, but not waking nightmares, because he was unmoved. Cold inside, like he was dead himself.
He stood in the sewage, staring up. He didn’t know how long he stood, taking mental pictures of the tableau. The girl’s blonde hair, elaborately held up with pins, some hair loose and hanging down across her face, obscuring the girl’s features and eyes almost well enough to hide the fact that someone had taken her eyes out. Gouged, maybe with fingernails. There were marks on her cheeks, her eyelids were torn. Vicious.
Strong, too. Who could hold a living person halfway up a wall
Might well be.
He put the thought, tinged with regret and not a little pain, to one side as he pushed the door to the bathroom open and headed inside. He had to push hard, and as he did a second flood hit his feet; this time above his boots.
Should’ve worn waders.
Too late to do anything about it now. The insurance on the pub would pay for a refit. This wasn’t a mop-and-bucket job.
He saw the problem immediately. One of the toilets was utterly destroyed. Fragments of porcelain, large and small, sat in deep pools of murky water. It looked as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to the toilet bowl and cistern—a modern, square thing, he imagined, looking at the toilets in the other stalls.
Who the fuck would smash up a toilet just to flood the pub?
“Fuck it,” he said quietly to himself. He wasn’t the police, or the insurance investigator. And, he realized, he felt so goddamned low he could barely find it in himself to care one way or the other.
His job, his only job, was to get the water to the building turned off at the mains out on the road, and go to his next job. This wasn’t a fixer-upper. The insurance could sort this out. Satisfied enough, Keane turned back to the door. Just to the right of the door, a young girl’s corpse was nailed halfway up the tiled wall.
4
Sometimes, in the maw of the black dog, a depression can be so deep that thought and feelings can’t find their way loose. Some people call it a black dog, hounding them. Some people describe it as a pit, one that’s dark and dank and bottomless for those within, low enough that you can see nothing but a small pinprick of unattainable light far above.
Keane stared at the girl. Nothing more. He didn’t shriek or puke or shout or cry. Stared, took it all in. Almost like he was taking a photograph with his mind. Tucking it away for later nightmares.
She wore a white shirt and black trousers, like maybe she’d worked in the pub. Sensible black shoes that a girl wouldn’t wear unless she was restricted to boring footwear by regulations. Almost definitely worked in the pub. No rings (her hands, palms out, were clean and free of adornments). Nails, thick square long timber nails, had been driven, pounded, through her wrists.
The wounds were torn, and there was a lot of blood both up the arms of the girl’s white shirt, down the tiled wall, but not on the floor, because of the water. The water beneath the girl was a little rusty, maybe, from blood mingled with the shit-water.
She’d been nailed up, wrists first…less blood on her feet (nails through the ankle bones, it looked like—her feet and legs were twisted to one side). She’d bled a lot from the first wounds, less from the feet. Maybe unconscious by then. But not dead? A body didn’t bleed as much dead as alive.
Keane figured this as he stared at the body on the wall. Click, click, click. Each shot a nightmare, but not waking nightmares, because he was unmoved. Cold inside, like he was dead himself.
He stood in the sewage, staring up. He didn’t know how long he stood, taking mental pictures of the tableau. The girl’s blonde hair, elaborately held up with pins, some hair loose and hanging down across her face, obscuring the girl’s features and eyes almost well enough to hide the fact that someone had taken her eyes out. Gouged, maybe with fingernails. There were marks on her cheeks, her eyelids were torn. Vicious.
Strong, too. Who could hold a living person halfway up a wall
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