Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

It took Nedim five minutes to reach his minivan. That was the only problem with Muhammed’s shop-there was no parking in the immediate vicinity, and even the King’s lawyers couldn’t do much about the police cameras that registered infringements. The other boys in the operation had laughed when they heard he was getting a “mummy’s car,” but they shut up when they saw it-the black paint and custom-built stereo system almost made it cool. It wasn’t as if Nedim had any choice. He was often told to move people around in groups-tarts, illegal immigrants, men tooled up for action. Besides, he had four kids.

At least there was a narrow lane that most people never noticed a few minutes’ walk away. Nedim parked the wagon there every evening and it had never even been touched-he would have known. As he walked around the corner, he pressed the button on the key. There was a chirp and lights flashed on the vehicle.

Nedim was trying to decide whether to play traditional Kurdish music or his recent discovery, Bruce Springsteen, and he didn’t notice the figure crouching behind the car. He went to the rear door and walked into a long blade that went into his belly to the hilt. The breath went out of him and he looked down at the hand holding the instrument of his death. It was sheathed in black leather. He tried to scream as the blade was wrenched upward, but he no longer had control over his voice. He dropped to his knees, dimly aware of the crack they made on the cobblestones. By then, the pain from his abdomen had made his eyes blur with tears. He felt shame, but not for long. The blade was biting, tearing into his very being. He toppled sideways, his shoulder hitting the car. Then the knife was pulled out in a rapid movement.

Nedim Zinar clutched the gaping wound, feeling the slick coils of his gut spill through his fingers. Then the horror came to a climax when he saw his killer’s face.

It was that of a scarred and deformed devil.

I went home without making too many detours. People stared at me when I did my on-off performance with three trains, but I made like I was drunker than I really was. No one paid much attention-behavior like that is pretty standard in London after the pubs shut. I took more care when I came out of Fulham Broadway Station, stopping in doorways and doubling back down a couple of alleyways. There was no sign of anyone following me.

As I headed toward the river, my cell phone rang.

“Where are you, Matt?” Karen asked. She sounded wiped out.

“Homeward bound. You?”

“My place. Sorry. I’ve got early meetings tomorrow.”

“Fair enough. Any news?” A stretch limo full of screaming young women passed and I had to shout over them. “I mean, on the Mary Malone case.”

“Homicide West isn’t much further on. I don’t suppose you’ve had any messages from you-know-who?”

“I might have had on the landline. I’ll ring after I’ve checked.”

“Okay.” She paused, as if there was something she wanted to say. “Good night” was all she managed.

“’Night,” I replied. I should have told her I loved her, and that I was going to jump in a cab and come to her house in Shepherd’s Bush. I wanted to nestle up to her so we could both drop into a deep, uninterrupted sleep, rather than go back to an empty flat where a ghost from the past might be waiting to haunt me all over again. But I’d missed my chance and I was sure that she knew it as well as I did.

I shook my head and tried to get a grip. Given the security system in my so-called “ultra-exclusive” block, Sara would have done well even to have got past the armored glass main door. It was over twenty-four hours since Mary Malone’s killing and there had been no sign of her. Some scumbag Satanists had got their kicks out of murdering a defenseless woman. Then I asked myself if I really believed that. The answer wasn’t encouraging. She was coming for me-even if not now, it would happen at some point in the future.

I found myself walking more quickly, eager to get home to see if Sara was hiding in the wardrobe or even lying on my bed, bold as love. Then it occurred to me that she might not be alone. She was rich enough to hire a small army of mercenaries and hit men. I considered calling Dave. He’d have come without hesitating and he wouldn’t have blamed me if the flat was clean.

“Come off it,” I told myself. “It’s been two years. Why would she come back now?”

I slowed my pace as the glass building rose up ahead of me. It wasn’t completely bathed in light, but it was close. I realized that my block and its inhabitants were just as wasteful as the pinstriped specimens in the City. In some cases, they were one and the same, although a lot of the owners were self-employed. I was probably the poorest of those. Still, I’d have to raise the issue at the next building meeting. There were far too many lights in the common areas.

Then I saw something that made me stop walking. My stomach somersaulted and my heart started to hammer. My flat was on the front and the left sides of the block, on the fourth floor. From where I was, I could see up to the left-hand rooms of my place-the kitchen and guest room. Lights had just come on in both. Jesus.

I stepped into the shadows, my eyes locked on the glass running the full height of the rooms. There were venetian blinds and curtains in both. The former had been closed when I left. Someone had opened them before turning on the lights, which suggested it wasn’t a burglar, even if one had got past the doors and alarms. It was hardly likely to be Sara or anyone else who had an interest in my demise. They’d made their presence pretty obvious. I thought of ringing Dave again. As I did, I saw a shape move across the kitchen.

Suddenly I was filled with anger. Some bastard had got into my home and was strolling around, poking his nose in my things. To hell with that. I moved forward at a trot that was soon close to a full-on sprint. I slowed as I approached the building because the perimeter camera would pick me up-as it would have my visitor-and the security firm would send a man over if it looked like the place was under assault. I punched my code into the main door and headed for the stairs. I’d only been in the lift once, and that was when I moved in-I wouldn’t let the removals guys carry my precious stereo system. I glanced at my watch. My record for the four flights was 19.4 seconds. I did them in 20.2 and jogged lightly down the wide hallway.

At my door, I felt my anger weaken, but not enough to stop me sliding my key silently into the lock. I got my breathing under control, then took out my cell phone and found Dave’s number in the memory. If anything adverse happened, I only had to press the button and he’d be connected. He would see my number on his phone’s screen and get going. The five of us had set that system up after the White Devil’s death and we’d tested it several times.

I was ready. I only wished I had taken some kind of weapon with me. From now on I’d be making sure I was always armed. Three-two-one…I turned the key and pushed the door open, then ran into the living area, shouting, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Daddy?” My daughter’s voice was fearful.

When I caught a glimpse of myself in the star-shaped mirror that my editor had given me when The Death List reached number one, I understood why. My eyes were wide, my hair was all over the place and I looked like a chest-heaving Viking in full berserk mode.

“Em, hello, Lucy,” I said, exhaling and looking around.

“What happened?” she asked. “You frightened me.”

I squatted down and opened my arms, as I’d done since she’d started walking.

After a pause, she ran into my embrace. Eleven wasn’t so old after all. I breathed in the scent of her hair and felt the warmth of her against my chest.