Ritual by Mo Hayder Page B

imaginary armies and men from the institution coming through the streets. Now that the police signals were encrypted she listened to the static instead. That was how out of the box she was.

After a few minutes Tig reappeared in the hallway, switching on the light and unlocking the chain.

'Mum's not sleeping. It's always worse when she doesn't sleep.' He stood back to let her in, waving his hand a little sorrowfully into the depths of the hallway. The narrow corridor of carpet was filthy, stains trodden in over years. 'It's always about now I want to use. When she can't sleep.'

They went into the kitchen with its piles of laundry, its cheap laminate table, salt and pepper and ketchup bottle on a stained plastic mat in the middle. Tig put the kettle on, turned the gas burners on the stove up high to warm the place up, and moved a pile of clothing off one of the chairs, gesturing for her to take a seat. She sat in silence at the table, the smells of neglect, decay and gas filling her head, the little bag of mushrooms still in her fleece pocket, hard and lumpy against her breast, reminding her of Mum and the dog violets. Tig made her a cup of milky tea, then found a packet of peanuts and opened it with his teeth, poured them into a bowl and pushed it in front of her.

'What is it? Work? Something horrible happen? It's funny – when you come here you don't smell of dead bodies.'

'I don't spend my whole life moving bodies around, you know.'

'Just most of it.'

Well, Tig, she wanted to say, these days the main thing I need my protective gear for is sitting in this flat. But she didn't. She pulled the coat tighter round herself. It really was cold in here, draughty. 'But you're right. I've had a couple of body days. Except not a yuck one – well, it was sort of yuck, sort of not.'

He picked up a handful of nuts and began idly to sort them in his palm. 'How can something be sort of yuck?'

'It was a pair of hands.'

He looked up. 'A pair of hands?'

'Under a restaurant in the floating harbour.'

'Without a body?'

'Without a body.'

'In Bristol harbour?'

'That's what I said.'

'Well, how in fuck's name did they get there?'

'Wish we knew.'

'Do they know whose hands they were?'

'Nope.'

'So which restaurant?'

'Down opposite Redcliffe Quay.' She poked at the peanuts, wondering if it was safe to eat anything in this place. 'The Moat.'

'The Moat?' He gave a low whistle. 'I know the fucking Moat. I know the guy who runs it. African guy – gave me a huge chunk of my startup capital.'

'Well,' she said, popping a couple of peanuts into her mouth. 'That's a good enough reason for me not to talk to you about it, isn't it?'

He sighed. 'Just showing interest, that's all.'

She took another peanut from the bowl and split it in half. Tig's hand was resting on the table, short nails, fading blue prison tattoos on the knuckles: Love and Hate . Not Mum and Dad . 'Tig?' she said, after small silence. 'You know when you used to take drugs?'

'I ain't about to forget it, am I?'

'Did you ever feel . . .' She ran her hands down her face, trying to find the words. 'Did you feel like a whole – a whole universe was opening up . . . in here, in your head?'

He gave a short laugh. 'A whole universe? Oh, yeah. That's how it feels to start with, like there are whole new worlds in there you'd never've got to any other way. But then later, when it turns itself round – because it always does turn itself round – suddenly the universe is what opens up when you're not using. But this time it's a universe of pain. And the only escape is more gear.'

'But at first, when you're in that universe, did you ever think you could . . . I don't know, that you could connect , maybe? Connect with people who've died?'

'Oh please, Flea. I see dead people , is that what this is? Give me a break, there isn't a moonchild, white witch or guru who doesn't tit around with gear and convince themselves they're getting some sort of super vision – some sort of