Darren Shan - Procession of the dead

It was a tiny, cramped pad. A huge freezer lay stretched along one wall, a tall fridge beside it, mattress and sleeping bag on the other side of the room, a cabinet covering the window at the rear. The bulb was barely bright enough to light the area directly beneath. It was a room of oppressive shadows. There was a door in one wall which doubtless led to a toilet and shower.

"It's not much," Wami trilled, "but it's home. You'll have to sit on the floor. I don't hold with chairs. In a tight situation a chair can be an obstacle."

I sat on the bare floor and crossed my legs. Wami went to his mattress and sat on the edge, hands resting on his thighs. He was studying me with an unreadable expression. "What do you wish to talk about?" he asked.

"You were following me today," I said. "Why didn't you kill me?"

"Why should I?"

"Isn't that what you do? Kill people?"

"I let some live." He smiled and the heads of the snakes lifted menacingly a couple of centimeters. "It would be a lonely world if I killed you all."

"But you've been hired to get rid of me," I said.

"No."

"You haven't?"

"You would be dead if I had."

"Then why were you following me?"

"You interest me," he said. "You're an Ayuamarcan. They're an old hobby of mine. I like to keep up with them when I'm in town. I've been following you since we met in the alley."

"Adrian too?"

"Adrian?" His face was blank.

"Adrian Arne. The man who was with me."

"Ah." He smiled serenely. "Some things do not change."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He looked at the cabinet and his eyes narrowed. He was pondering something. "How much do you know of me?" he asked, fingers rising to stroke the tattooed snakes.

"Not much. You're an assassin. You used to work for The Cardinal. Everybody who knows you fears you. They say you're the meanest, coldest man alive."

He smiled modestly, liking what he heard. "It's not an easy task, being the most feared man in a city like this. I have had to work hard for my reputation. But I am only an occasional assassin. When I'm in the mood, or if an old acquaintance asks. Most of the time I kill for my own reasons. I am a pioneer. I was one of the first real serial killers, back in the days before it was fashionable. For more than forty years I've blazed trails others can only dream of. I've adopted more guises than the police can count. I've been the Black Angel, Moonshine, the Weasel, Eyeball Ernie and more. I've taken life in every corner of the world, rich and poor, young and old, male and female.

"I kill because I am a killer," he said. "It's that simple. It's who I am, what I do. When I kill, I'm being true to myself. There are no hidden motives, no perverse longings. Do you think it's wrong, Capac Raimi, to be true to oneself?"

"When you put it that way…"

"There's no other way to put it," he said, then added conversationally, "I keep notes of my killings. I write of every one. I have dozens of notepads, full of times and places, names, methods, results. That's how I relax in my spare time. I write about my work and dwell upon it at length. I enjoy reading about my old murders. The problem with being responsible for so many is one tends to forget a lot of the details. One death is much the same as any other. They blend.

"I'm thirsty," he said. "Will you fetch a beer from the fridge? You may have one yourself if you wish."

I felt uneasy having my back to him, but I didn't think he was going to kill me, not yet. I opened the door of the fridge and looked for the beer. The fridge was full of jars with hand-applied labels and contents I didn't want to think about. I ignored those easily enough. What I couldn't ignore was the child's head near the top, staring out at me with ruined, innocent eyes. It had been neatly severed and allowed to drain. There was a bowl underneath to catch the last few drops and, as I stood rooted to the spot, I saw a pearl of blood swell and fall.

"The beer's on the second shelf from the top," Wami said pleasantly. "Behind the head."

I repressed a shiver of revulsion. I had a feeling there was a lot riding on this. A wrong move now and that face would be the last I'd ever see. Reaching out, I gently took the head by the ears and moved it to one side. The flesh was cold, scaly, a texture I'd never forget. When there was space, I reached past and grabbed a couple of cans, then laid them on a lower shelf while I returned the head to its previous position. I looked into those young eyes-five? six?-one last time, retrieved the beers and closed the door.

Wami was emotionless as I handed him the can. But, as I was taking my hand away, he suddenly grasped it. I tried to jerk free but he was too strong. He smiled and shook his head slightly. I stopped struggling. Without saying a word he put his can down and closed my fingers into a fist. Then he took my index finger and pulled it out so it was pointing straight ahead. He leaned back so his chin was sticking up. Slowly he guided my hand forward, bringing the tip of my finger to the spot beneath his lip where the heads of the snakes twined around each other. I stared at their painted mouths, their venomous fangs. Then he touched my finger to the flesh.

There was a sudden burning sensation. I yelped and dragged my hand back. He let it go and picked up his beer, saying nothing. I rubbed the finger and examined it. There were no bite marks but there was a small red swelling. I sucked the finger and studied it some more. The flesh wasn't broken and the redness was already beginning to fade.

"How did-," I began, only to have him cut in.

"There's a file over there," he said, nodding toward the cabinet. "Bring it to me."

The cabinet was loaded with files, notebooks and loose pages. I looked up and down a couple of times, wondering which he wanted. I was on the verge of asking when I saw it, a small file halfway up,ayuamarca scrawled roughly in the top right corner. I handed it over. He opened it and took out two sheets of paper. Turned to the second and studied it. Grunted, found a red pen and made a mark. He showed me the page, pointing to the bottom. The name he'd made the mark beside was Adrian's.

"Adrian Arne," he said, passing me the sheets. "Sit. Don't look at them yet." I did as ordered. "I don't know this Adrian Arne. As far as I am aware, we never met. I don't recall him being with us in the alley, or writing his name.

"I noticed something many years ago," he went on. "One day, perusing my older journal entries, I spotted a couple of names I had no memory of. I'd described killing them, so I must have, but I couldn't recall doing it. Confused, I went through my records-a lengthy task-and found six names, half a dozen murders which didn't fit in with my memories. I was disturbed, naturally, but also intrigued. Madness has always fascinated me. If I was losing my memory, it might be the first sign of a slide into something darker, an abyss I'd always longed to explore. I considered it an opportunity, a chance to experience life from a different perspective.

"Alas, the condition didn't worsen." He looked genuinely glum. "I was able to operate as efficiently as always. I didn't find myself making mistakes, drooling in my sleep or coming to my senses in strange places. I was the same Paucar Wami I'd always been, bar the memory lapses.

"Later, searching the files in Party Central, I discovered that." He nodded at the sheets of paper. "I had looked for the missing names elsewhere but found no trace. When I saw them there, I made a copy and brought it home to study. There were other names on the list I knew nothing about, people who had nothing to do with me. But I knew a few and found records on some of the others.

"I decided to play a game with myself. I made a red mark to the left of each name I knew or could find in the files. Then, every once in a while, I checked the sheets to see if the names still registered with me. Whenever I found one I'd forgotten, I made a red mark to the right of it.