Mesmeris Read online

  MESMERIS

  K E COLES

  Copyright © K E Coles 2014

  K E Coles asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved. If you have purchased the ebook edition of this novel please be aware that it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and refrain from copying it.

  Photo adapted for cover image © Steve Boyland

  For translation rights and permission queries please contact the author’s agent

  [email protected]

  About the Author

  K.E Coles was born in Taplow, Berkshire and now lives in beautiful West Wales. She is an exhibiting fine artist and a selection of her work is available on this website

  http://www.saatchiart.com/kazmojazz

  Mesmeris is her first novel and its sequel Infixion is also available

  Dedication

  For my wonderful parents.

  Thanks to Caz Abrahams, Gail Rennie, and my children for their invaluable feedback, Steve Boyland for the fab cover image, my whole extended family for their constant support, and my agent, Lisa Eveleigh for believing in Mesmeris.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  PROLOGUE

  Behind the boarded-up shop, Spook held onto the wall and slammed kicks into the broken body that had, only ten minutes before, been a living, breathing human being. He stood back, satisfied. Blood spattered his clothes, streaked his Doc Martens. He wiped his hands on his jeans, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, lit one and took a long, slow drag. He was a little out of breath, nothing more.

  He saw them, three of them, standing in the shadows, watching. At a rough guess, they were his own age, maybe a little older – nineteen, twenty. Odd coats – a Crombie, a Parka and a long leather job – like rejects from a movie.

  ‘Tosser asked for it,’ he said.

  They stared, said nothing.

  Spook walked towards the main road. They fell in behind him. At the crossing, he checked over his shoulder. They were ten metres away, staring straight at him. Not a problem. He could take them all on if he had to.

  He turned down Hamilton Avenue, strolled along the tree-lined street. They were still coming and seriously starting to piss him off. At the curve in the road, he took a left into a lane between the gardens. On his own territory, he pulled the knife from his pocket, flicked it open and waited. They came around the corner, stopped. Spook’s lip curled as he saw their eyes take in the blade. As a rule, he preferred to use his fists – liked the contact, the feel of flesh on flesh, bone on bone, but he wasn’t stupid. Three to one needed a weapon.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Who’s first?’

  They smirked, the cocky bastards – didn’t move, stood underneath the feeble streetlamp.

  ‘What’s up?’ Spook said. ‘Scared?’

  Crombie shrugged and came forward. Spook braced himself, knees slightly bent, one foot a little behind the other. He balanced the knife in his hand - well up for it. His eyes met Crombie’s. Something wrong there - no fear, as if he knew something Spook didn’t. He wasn’t carrying so Spook checked out the other two, just a flick of the eye. Stupid mistake. The knife flew from his hand. His back hit the tarmac, knocked the air clean out of his lungs. The back of his head smacked the ground. Searing pain blinded him.

  Something heavy weighed on his chest. He opened his eyes to see Crombie, sitting astride him. The knife lay almost within reach. Spook stretched out a hand. His fingers scrabbled at nothing, a millimetre from the blade. He swore, braced his feet against the ground and arched his back, tried to throw the boy off. There was no shifting him.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Crombie said. ‘You could be wasting your last moments.

  ‘Listen, you prick. You don’t wanna mess with me.’

  ‘Oh, but I do.’ Crombie smiled. ‘I do want to mess with you.’

  The other two leaned against the wall, watched with amused grins. Parka rolled a fag with one hand. ‘Any last requests?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Crombie said. ‘That’s not nice. You don’t want those to be your last words.’

  ‘I don’t give a flying . . .’ Spook used all his strength to raise his hips. ‘. . . I’m gonna mash . . .’ he tried to twist his body, felt his eyes bulge with the effort, ‘. . . you wankers . . .’ He collapsed back, exhausted.

  The boy had him pinned to the ground and yet he was skinny, couldn’t weigh more than seventy kilos. Had to be the angle of his body, the position of his knees.

  Spook spat at him but it was never going to reach its target. The slime fell back onto his own face, slid down his cheek and into his left ear. The boys laughed. For the first time in his life, Spook felt afraid.

  ‘Why don’t you say a little prayer?’ Crombie said.

  ‘What? Say a what?’

  ‘A prayer. You know what that is, right?’

  ‘What are you - fuckin’ bible bashers?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ The boy leaned forward so his knees dug into Spook’s shoulders.

  Spook winced, clenched his teeth.

  ‘That hurt?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Crombie pushed his knees down again, crushed Spook’s shoulders against the tarmac. ‘Does - that - hurt?’

  Spook groaned. He felt the sweat prickle his skin, the blood pound at his temples.

  Crombie leaned forward again, ground his knees deep into the shoulders, and forced the joints apart.

  Spook cried out and the boy sat back, pleased. ‘I think that hurt, didn’t it?’

  Spook nodded, whimpered.

  ‘Shall I do it again?’ He wasn’t asking Spook, he was asking his mates.

  ‘Yeah, go on,’ Parka said. ‘Go on, crush him.’

  ‘No - No!’ Spook screamed. ‘Look, okay, I’m sorry. Whatever you want, I’ll do it, okay? I’ll say anything you like – just - for fuck’s sake, get off me.’

  Crombie looked at his mates. ‘What d’you think, lads?’

  Leather coat shrugged. ‘Suppose he could be useful – and he has said sorry.’

  ‘No way,’ Parka protested. ‘No way.’

  ‘Mmm - So it’s up to me then.’ The boy seemed undecided. ‘I have the casting vote.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘You know - I really can’t decide what to do with you.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Spook said. ‘Hail Mary . . .’

  ‘Go on.’ Crombie raised his eyebrows, lips twitching.

  Spook didn’t know any more.

  ‘Full of grace,’ the boy prompted.

  Nothing.

  ‘Shame,’ Crombie said, and smiled. ‘Anyway, wrong church.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rain beat against the church roof, poured in a torrent from the broken guttering, splashed against the windows. The candle I tried to lig
ht for Tom Morris flickered and went out for the third time. I gave up, returned to my pew and plonked myself next to Lydia.

  The splintering sound of lightning tore the air above us, followed by thunder so loud, I swear it shook the building.

  ‘Shit!’ Lydia said.

  I checked over my shoulder. No chance of anyone hearing her, not with the racket going on outside. That, and the clanking and hissing of the decrepit overhead heaters. ‘It’s only thunder,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ she said, all bravado. Still, she slipped her hand into mine. ‘It’s the lightning that kills you, doofus.’

  As sisters go, we weren’t alike in looks or personality. Nor were we close any more, not for the past year, since she’d become a ‘proper teenager’ as she called it and I’d somehow morphed from cool big sister into boring pain. The touch of her hand in mine reminded me of when she was little – made me sad.

  Another loud crack made everyone duck. Lydia’s attempt at a laugh didn’t quite come off.

  Dad thanked everyone for braving the elements, raised his voice to compete with the furore of the storm. He began the Eucharist service. ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son . . .’

  We stood for the first hymn.

  ‘My song is love unknown,

  My Saviour’s love to me,’

  Doris did her best to force a tune out of the wheezy old organ. Brian, two rows behind me, sang too loudly, slightly off-key and slightly out of time with everyone else.

  ‘Love to the loveless shown,

  that they might lovely be.’

  A beautiful hymn, massacred.

  Everyone knelt for the confession. I rested my elbows on the pew in front, closed my eyes and recited the words without thinking, as I always did, every Sunday. My father gave us all absolution.

  ‘Almighty God, have mercy on you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, confirm and . . .’

  The rest of the service was spent going through the motions. My head was somewhere else. I thought about Tom, about how frightened he must have been at the end. I wondered whether even a psycho like Spook could have done such a thing. A whole month since the murder and still, everything was weird. I wondered if life would ever get back to normal.

  The Eucharist:

  Wafer

  ‘Amen’

  Wine

  ‘Amen’

  Kneel

  Stand

  Sing

  Kneel

  All of it went by in a daze. I’d done it forever, it seemed - same thing, every Sunday morning.

  After the service, we hurried through the rain to the church hall. I clutched my lukewarm tea, laced with the merest hint of disinfectant, and picked up a soft Rich Tea biscuit. The usual interrogation from the oldies followed. Same questions every week.

  ‘How are the A levels going, Pearl?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘What are you doing again?’

  ‘Art, English and History.’

  ‘How’s school, Pearl?

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘Got a boyfriend yet, Pearl?’

  ‘No.’ No, I bloody haven’t, thank you very much for asking.

  After tea, I ran back to the vicarage and straight up to my room. Small enough to be cosy but large enough for all my stuff, it felt like a nest – a nest with a desk and laptop. Its bay window looked out over the overgrown back garden, a tangled mass of trees, bushes and brambles. Behind that lay the churchyard, the church itself and the fields bIt still took me by surprise, the beauty of the view, even after eight months. We’d lived in and around the city all my life, but this was my favourite vicarage so far. I opened the window, breathed in the sweet, clean air and thought of Tom Morris, lying in that filthy lane, beaten and bloody and dead - all night, on his own. I hadn’t even known him, not to talk to. He’d been bullied for months by Tipper’s lot, they said. Well, he was out of it now, and Spook had disappeared. Maybe what that smackhead said was true. Maybe he had seen Spook drag Tom off the street. Maybe he had heard the screams.

  I closed the window, turned on every light in my room and tried to think of something else.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monday dawned brighter than Sunday. The rain had given way to a dull greyness that bleached the colour from everything. Even the grass looked grey.

  An afternoon’s study leave meant an excuse to visit the local pub, ‘The Duke of Wellington’, a barn of a place with all the atmosphere of the school dinner hall. The fact that they never checked ID just gave it the edge.

  Three boys stood outside the pub, leaning against the wall. Two of them could have been related - same dark hair, same blue eyes. The other one had mousy hair and wore a Parka like mine, but a proper one with the dangly bit at the back. He lit a rollie, dropped the match on the ground. They weren’t talking and looked kind of scary.

  I watched Abbi instinctively begin to sway her hips as she saw them. She flicked her highlighted hair over her shoulder as she passed. They looked, of course. They always do. The one in the Crombie caught my attention. The jaded look in his eye, the set of his mouth made him look hard but there was something else there too – a vulnerability, a sadness. He looked tired, his eyes deeply shadowed as if he hadn’t slept. Slight stubble covered his chin.

  His eyes met mine and jolted me out of my daydream. I hurried into the pub after the girls, cursed myself for staring.

  ‘Wow! See them?’ Abbi said. ‘Hot or what?’

  ‘Weird,’ Jess said.

  We pooled our money.

  ‘Your hands are shaking, Pearly,’ Jess said. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Why hadn’t I straightened my hair, or at least put on some mascara? I could just imagine how I looked – washed-out, pale skin, hair like a dark, tatty mop stuck on top of my head. Next to man-magnet Abbi and lovely Jess, with her well-behaved hair and normal eyes, I had no chance.

  ‘I’ll get those.’ His hand came over my shoulder as he gave the barman a twenty-pound note.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ Abbi said.

  I sidled past him, eyes lowered, aware of the warmth of his skin, skin that was terrifyingly close to mine. I felt his breath on my hair. My wobbly legs held out until I reached a table - just. I sat down and closed my eyes. He was staring at me. I took my phone out and pretended to text, tried to stop my eyes moving from the screen. I didn’t want to see Abbi flirt with him, couldn’t bear to see him fall for her like every other boy.

  ‘What’s up, Pearl?’ Jess plonked the drinks on the table.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He stood at the bar and watched me. I couldn’t believe it. Then I realised he must be looking at something behind me. That made sense. That would be just bloody typical. I turned around. Nothing. Just faded, beige, flock wallpaper.

  ‘His name’s Jack,’ Abbi said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let him pay,’ I said. ‘He’ll think we owe him something.’

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ she said. ‘Look at his coat. He can afford it.’

  I didn’t look up, could feel his eyes on me. I knew it was a Crombie, anyway – grey with a black velvet collar – one like my dad wore in that photo from the eighties, when he was a mod.

  ‘D’you know him?’ Jess said. ‘Cos it looks like he knows you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I think you’ve pulled,’ Abbi said.

  ‘Shut up, Abbi.’

  ‘Honestly, look at him.’

  ‘Abbi – please, shut up.’ My hair prickled with sweat.

  ‘He hasn’t taken his eyes off you,’ Jess said. ‘Kind of creepy if you ask me.’

  ‘Creepy, my arse,’ Abbi said. ‘About time someone decent appreciated Pearl’s kooky beauty. Not sure he’ll settle for one of your hand jobs though.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I said, a wave of heat rising up my face.

  She carried on, oblivious. ‘Shame his mates didn't come in. We could've had one each.’

  I glanced up and he smiled at me. God, h
e was beautiful. I don’t even know if I smiled back or not.

  A big guy in a stained, white overall delivered our food but the thought of eating it made me gag. I picked at it, moved it around the plate, while the girls ate theirs.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Abbi said, as she shovelled a last piece of burger into her rosebud mouth. ‘Look who’s here.’

  Tipper stood in the doorway, no doubt for effect. White-blond hair lit from behind, pale, ice-cold, blue eyes, like some kind of demonic angel. He was no angel, though. Just a bog-standard yob like the rest of his gang. The others pushed through the door behind him. Menace emanated from them. Not only the body language, the way they strutted through the room like they owned the place, but something else, something as real as the wind and just as obvious.

  They weren’t in our class, thank God, and barely noticed us. We did our best to keep it that way.

  They stood at the bar, next to Jack.

  ‘Right, guys,’ the barman said. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Four pints - Stella,’ Tipper said.

  A few customers drained their drinks and left. The barman pulled four pints and placed them on the bar.

  One of Tipper’s lot, Collins, gave Abbi the once-over and nodded. He was the best looking of them all - tall, athletic, and dark-skinned but Abbi just rolled her eyes and looked away.

  ‘Bitch,’ he said, and turned back to the bar.

  ‘What’s up?’ Tipper said.

  Collins nodded at our table. Great! So much for not getting noticed.

  Tipper looked over. ‘Blonde?’

  Collins nodded.

  Tipper picked up his drink.

  ‘Oh, God!’ All three of us said together.

  ‘Leave it, Tip,’ Collins said.

  But Tipper wasn’t the type of person to ‘leave it’. He swaggered over. His mouth smiled at Abbi. ‘My friend,’ he gestured at the bar, ‘wants to buy you a drink. Don’t know why, ‘cause you look like a dog to me.’

  Nice.

  Jenkins, Tipper’s weasely sidekick, giggled.

  Abbi shook her head. ‘I don’t . . .’

  Tipper held his hand up and stopped her. ‘Collie here is going to buy you a drink.’ He put his hands on the table, fingers splayed, and leaned right over into Abbi’s face. ‘And then you are going to do him a favour.’ He winked. ‘Got it?’