and still drive nails through bone, into a brick wall?
Click.
Pull out her eyes with their fingers?
Click.
God, I hope she was dead , he thought. I hope she was dead by then.
And, as he stood in the pool, cool water seeping over the top of his work boots, his mind finally shifted into thinking. The person who killed her didn’t need to be that strong…if it had been the work of more than one person.
Fuck.
A gang? Didn’t have much call for gangs in the south side of Norwich. Maybe some kind of wannabe white gangster types on the north side, wearing their trousers slung low and their caps sideways, but not so much on the south side, where most of the money was. The King’s Arms, too, was a nice pub in a nice suburb. Not the kind of place that needed a doorman on a weekend night. More food than drink sold, probably.
More than one, then, he thought. More than one killer.
He didn’t know why he was thinking about this. It wasn’t his game anymore. He’d left that game. Left it behind when Teresa had died.
Been killed, honey, she said in his head.
Click , he thought.
He hadn’t seen a dead body in seven years. But he knew how it worked. Knew the angles, and how the police and the circus would swarm.
Lift her hair, he would say now. Someone would lift her hair, and click, he’d take her face for the camera, for the police, the court.
He didn’t know why he did it, but he found himself standing before her, looking up into her face, head hanging loosely upon her chest.
Most people, he remembered from his past, used to asphyxiate as they tired and their heads were pulled against their chest. Found out a lot about death, had Keane, over the years. Like that pleasant snippet he’d tucked away from a book he’d read about crucifixion.
So, like a photographer at a scene, he looked up into the girl’s pretty, dead face, to see what it was that was tickling at him, tickling the whole time. That there was something else.
And yes. There was. There, under her fringe. Carved in her forehead.
An eye. The third eye.
He jumped back like a man who’d seen a ghost, and his bastard mind said click click click as he remembered Teresa.
The third eye, carved into his dead wife’s forehead.
The eye that spoke to him.
And, at that thought, the eye opened.
5
The girl was dead. She was sightless. But that third eye saw Keane Reid very well. Because someone had carved it there, in the girl’s flesh, for Keane. Killed and crucified the girl. Created the flood, had him called.
Power. Thought. Cunning.
The third eye blinked and the girl smiled.
“Keane,” she said, her voice husky and empty and devoid of breath. Her throat ragged from screaming as she died, but nonetheless, she spoke. She saw.
Keane stepped back, heavy boots splashing in the water. Run, his mind said. Run, said the voice of his murdered wife in his head. But he couldn’t. His legs were weak. His heart beat like he was out of breath from running long and hard, but he wasn’t. His breath was steady. His heart pounded alone. And, realizing he was just afraid, he gulped in air, one great shuddering gasp.
“Keane,” said the dead girl. But it was just a voice in his head. Just in his head.
“I missed you,” she said.
“I fucked your wife’s dead skull, Keane,” said the voice that was in Keane’s head.
I’m having a breakdown again , he thought. But he knew he wasn’t.
Just as no matter how many times he told himself the dead girl wasn’t speaking in his voice, it wouldn’t ever be true.
He was here. He was back.
If he replied, though? It might make it true.
It’s true, honey, said his wife. He fucked me in the head and I liked it.
“No.” His voice. Weak, but his.
“She liked it, Keane. She liked it. She liked it plenty.”
“No,” said Keane again. He shook his head. His voice was quiet, robbed of power by horror and fear, just like his legs, barely holding him above the sewage.
He
Click.
Pull out her eyes with their fingers?
Click.
God, I hope she was dead , he thought. I hope she was dead by then.
And, as he stood in the pool, cool water seeping over the top of his work boots, his mind finally shifted into thinking. The person who killed her didn’t need to be that strong…if it had been the work of more than one person.
Fuck.
A gang? Didn’t have much call for gangs in the south side of Norwich. Maybe some kind of wannabe white gangster types on the north side, wearing their trousers slung low and their caps sideways, but not so much on the south side, where most of the money was. The King’s Arms, too, was a nice pub in a nice suburb. Not the kind of place that needed a doorman on a weekend night. More food than drink sold, probably.
More than one, then, he thought. More than one killer.
He didn’t know why he was thinking about this. It wasn’t his game anymore. He’d left that game. Left it behind when Teresa had died.
Been killed, honey, she said in his head.
Click , he thought.
He hadn’t seen a dead body in seven years. But he knew how it worked. Knew the angles, and how the police and the circus would swarm.
Lift her hair, he would say now. Someone would lift her hair, and click, he’d take her face for the camera, for the police, the court.
He didn’t know why he did it, but he found himself standing before her, looking up into her face, head hanging loosely upon her chest.
Most people, he remembered from his past, used to asphyxiate as they tired and their heads were pulled against their chest. Found out a lot about death, had Keane, over the years. Like that pleasant snippet he’d tucked away from a book he’d read about crucifixion.
So, like a photographer at a scene, he looked up into the girl’s pretty, dead face, to see what it was that was tickling at him, tickling the whole time. That there was something else.
And yes. There was. There, under her fringe. Carved in her forehead.
An eye. The third eye.
He jumped back like a man who’d seen a ghost, and his bastard mind said click click click as he remembered Teresa.
The third eye, carved into his dead wife’s forehead.
The eye that spoke to him.
And, at that thought, the eye opened.
5
The girl was dead. She was sightless. But that third eye saw Keane Reid very well. Because someone had carved it there, in the girl’s flesh, for Keane. Killed and crucified the girl. Created the flood, had him called.
Power. Thought. Cunning.
The third eye blinked and the girl smiled.
“Keane,” she said, her voice husky and empty and devoid of breath. Her throat ragged from screaming as she died, but nonetheless, she spoke. She saw.
Keane stepped back, heavy boots splashing in the water. Run, his mind said. Run, said the voice of his murdered wife in his head. But he couldn’t. His legs were weak. His heart beat like he was out of breath from running long and hard, but he wasn’t. His breath was steady. His heart pounded alone. And, realizing he was just afraid, he gulped in air, one great shuddering gasp.
“Keane,” said the dead girl. But it was just a voice in his head. Just in his head.
“I missed you,” she said.
“I fucked your wife’s dead skull, Keane,” said the voice that was in Keane’s head.
I’m having a breakdown again , he thought. But he knew he wasn’t.
Just as no matter how many times he told himself the dead girl wasn’t speaking in his voice, it wouldn’t ever be true.
He was here. He was back.
If he replied, though? It might make it true.
It’s true, honey, said his wife. He fucked me in the head and I liked it.
“No.” His voice. Weak, but his.
“She liked it, Keane. She liked it. She liked it plenty.”
“No,” said Keane again. He shook his head. His voice was quiet, robbed of power by horror and fear, just like his legs, barely holding him above the sewage.
He
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