Page 143 of Dead Vengeance

“And why shouldn’t I? He has no right to be doing that job. People like that, they… they can’t just set people up. They can’t just use him like he’s nothing, just because he got himself into some trouble. Fuck, he was so young. Just a tough, stupid, troubled teenager when he fell in with that lot, and they set him up. They used him, and they left him like that, on the floor all night. And did they ever catch those guys? Did they? I refuse to just sit here and let them—”

“Honey—”

“No, I don’t think you understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” he says, still maddeningly calm, still running those little circles. “I know you’re doing this for your mum. I know you are. But it’s not just that, is it? You want more than that phone call. I know you do, because when we had that séance today, you told him what you’re after.”

Our eyes meet in the meagre light seeping through Gerald’s horizontal blinds, and for the second time today, it feels like he can see straight into me.

“You want justice,” he says. “You want the truth out there. But you also want revenge. Revenge for the dead.”

My breath catches. He put it into words better than I ever could.

He doesn’t pause to let me attempt a reply. “That’s why I’m coming with you. That’s why, I’m going to be by your side every step of the way doing what I do best. And, while I’m at it, stopping you from getting arrested.”

“I wasn’t planning on getting arrested,” I slightly joke, even if it was actually quite high on today’s self-destructive to-do list.

“And now you definitely won’t.” Archer stands, drawing me up in front of him.

“This isn’t your fight,” I protest halfheartedly, because I do secretly want him there, with every fibre of my being.

Thank goodness he sets me somewhat at ease by replying, “This has been my fight since Tezcatlipoca took up residence in my attic. Since he drew you to me. However this happened, whatever his reasoning was, we’re in this together now.”

Archer’s lips press mine, silencing any argument I might have sweetly and far too seductively.

He pulls back and wraps my heart tight around his finger when he whispers, “You’ve got me in your corner now. And if there’s one thing I’m very good at, it’s dead vengeance.”

forty

The Man With a Plan

Liam

So, here I am, walking into the Metropolitan Police station with absolutely no game plan. The sky’s darkened to a blue-grey verging on navy, and the wind’s blowing in pre-storm gusts that fling scraps of broken autumn leaves up into my eyes. It’s cold outside, but preferable to the sterile grey carpet, flickering fluorescent lights, and droning low phone-speak in the background.

I did try to think of something to say on the way over. But what? And what if he’s not even here? Do I demand they show me their files? As if that would happen. They’ll send me on a wild goose chase, filling out forms, requesting information, only to tell me their documents are sealed for fifty years or something. It’s not as though I can afford a lawyer to take them to court over this.

The man on the desk ignores us for a while. Doesn’t look up. Taps away at his keyboard.

It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to ask if he’s noticed me, but of course he has. He’s just being a dick, and I’m just standing here, and he has no idea who I am, or why I’m here, or how traumatised I might be, and it strikes me as so incredibly disrespectful.

Archer’s little finger catches mine, briefly, then he walks straight up to the guy. “Detective Peter Marsden called us in to see him. I don’t think he wants to be kept waiting.”

My breath stutters at the easy audacity of the lie, but Archer doesn’t even blink when the guy fixes a thick stare on him. It’s a few seconds the man’s brain spends working over the instruction. I guess the thought of annoying his superior wins out over inconveniencing us, because eventually, “Who should I tell him is here?”

“Liam Locke,” Archer answers.

My anxiety doubles—the thought of being presumptuous or an upstart—that I don’t deserve this time or attention on this case. Probably the result of years of being shown exactly that.

The man types a little, then taps some buttons on his phone, then we wait. “Liam Locke to see you. Says you have an appointment.”

We wait in the busy hum of the police station until finally, “Right.” He hangs up. “He says you don’t have…”

Archer’s already pulling me away to the other side of the room before I can mumble up some excuse. He leans in close and says, “We know he’s here. That’s the first step.”

“First step?” I whisper back. “So what’s the second? Wait here until he comes out?”

Archer gives a half-scoff-chortle sort of laugh and says, “Hold my beer.”