Chapter Thirty Six
Demon
The kitchen table was swamped with paper. Drawing after drawing after drawing. Swirls of darkness and tortured souls, demons and death. And Ciara. It had been four days.
Kinobi whimpered, nudging my left arm with her nose.
“All right, girl, I’ll take you out.” I dropped the pencil reluctantly on the drawing in front of me, staring at it for a few seconds longer. She stared right back, her eyes piercing mine, challenging me, drawing me in.
Fuck, what was I doing? No one like her had ever walked into my life before. Or driven into my life more accurately. And nearly into me. But from that very first moment, when I walked towards her battered little car, full of the usual rage and it dissipated at the sight of her, I knew she was something else.
And now here I was, wallowing in my own self-pity, with every passing second risking losing her.
The dog scratched at the door. Another whimper. Sighing. I got to my feet, shoving into the thick boots in front of the door that led down to the garage, before following the dog down the stairs. I hadn’t tidied up. The bike still lay on its side, like a crash victim, battered. Bike parts were strewn around it. On another day, this was a sorry sight. It would drive me insane, but right now, I felt nothing. Not towards the motorbike, anyway.
Letting the gradient of the bank pull me, we walked towards the river and the viaduct that rose above it, usually carrying traffic in and out of the City. But at 3.00am the road above was almost deserted. From the East the first hint of sun was rising, orange and red filtering over the river that ran out into the North Sea. The River Ouse lapped lightly against the banks, rhythmical and peaceful. Calming. Normally. But even the gentle sound of the tide against the river banks, the padding of the paws of the dog by my side and the early bird song before the roar of cars swallowed their voices, couldn’t quell the turmoil that had burned inside me the last few weeks. And from a smouldering ember, a great blaze had grown, a fiery rage licking at every part of me. And there’d been no Ciara to dampen it, to keep it under control.
I was nothing without her. No. That wasn’t quite right. I was everything that was volatile without her. A bomb ready to detonate at the slightest disturbance, exploding outwards to take everything in its path with it. I was atomic devastation, and she was the only one who could counteract the blast.
Kinobi stopped suddenly, her head up, ears pricked, a low grumble starting in her throat. I stared into the dusk of dawn, scanning for movement, for whatever had caught her eye. The grumble turned into a growl, her head moving from side to side, sensing something but not seeing it. The bark made me jump, deep and dangerous, and now she turned away, towards home.
“What is it, girl?” I whispered into the dawn, my voice sounding loud against the morning song of the birds.
Her ears pricked again, turning to look at me, her head tilting from side to side as her eyes said something I couldn’t work out. Then she howled. A sound I’d never heard her make before. Not ever. It was long and loud. Then she pulled, trotting back the way we had come, the heckles between her shoulders standing on end, flowing down her back and a low snarl at the back of her throat.
I strode along behind her, keeping up with quick long strides, constantly checking behind me for anyone attacking from behind. But still there was no sign of anyone else, just the clack of Kinobi’s claws hitting the pavement and my own erratic breaths.
Inside the garage, I yanked the shutter down, locking the outside out and the smallest relief washing over me. The dog looked up, a small whimper, a knowing look.
“We’re home now, Kinobi. Everything is OK.” But deep inside it didn’t feel OK. Something felt off. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the dog acting weird. Or maybe it was the feeling of loss for what I was about to lose if I didn’t put it right.
My van roared to life, echoing around the garage. The exhaust was nearly as loud as the Harley Davidson, but this one was really trying, whereas the Fat Boy that lay on its side beside me needed to make little effort to produce that same delicious, guttural tone. 3.10am. Ciara would be home by now, probably sound asleep. I’d sit outside her front door till she woke up if I had to.
The little street of shabby Victorian terraces was almost entirely asleep. In the house, almost in the middle, three storeys slumbered. Mostly. I could see Ciara’s room. One big, single-glazed window that didn’t look like it had been updated since Queen Vic’s reign. There was a huge crack across the glass, and in the top corner, one curtain hung limply, falling from the rail, a flood of light pooling out the top corner. She was still awake.
I parked the van behind a big black Mercedes. It looked out of place in this street, even for the local drug dealer. The plates were brand new, hot of off the production line and its tinted windows had been added extras to the sixty-grand vehicle that sat on the side of the road. I glanced around, an unease settling in my stomach.
There was another light on in the house, right at the top in the attic rooms, flowing through a gap in the curtains that had been half drawn. The rest of the street slept, not a peek of a light in the other houses.
The door to the house full of tiny bedsits was closed but not locked, pushing open with some slight persuasion. Inside, the hallway cast in shadows from an aging bulb that hung from the ceiling. A sliver of light crept out from under a door on the ground floor, the murmur of a television in the background. I jogged up the stairs, taking two at a time, the wood groaning under my weight.
The first-floor landing was quiet. Almost quiet. Voices. I could hear them from the left of me, towards Ciara’s room. A man’s voice. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. Overwhelming heat rushing at my cheeks, erupting in my stomach. Rage and jealousy flooding my system. It had only been four days. Four fucking days. I crept closer, my head whirring with possibilities.
Her door was shut tight, orange light sneaking through the tiniest crack. I stepped closer, my ear almost touching the swollen wood, holding my breath so I could listen better.
“Please,” her voice was weak, wavering round the edges. I listened again. “I…I’m sorry about your hand. It wasn’t my fault…”
“It fucking was your fault, you stupid slut.” The voice cut her off, harsh and accented. My heart beat harder, a dull, deep thunder against my chest. Anger at what he had said to her chasing away the jealousy.
“You sold me out to the O’Sullivans, bitch. And I never really got the chance to thank you.”
The accent. I played it back in my head. The O’Sullivans. I knew who they were, and I knew the connection to Ciara. Suddenly, the memory came crashing back. And I knew who this was.
But I didn’t know what I was going to be walking into when I kicked this door in. I was going in blind. No weapons. No back up. And if I was right about who was in that room with my girl, then they’d all be packing. I needed a plan. And fast.
Only problem was I wasn’t known for my planning. So, I took a deep breath and raised my leg.