The Neverloving Dead (Haunted Hearts)

CHAPTER 10

GAYLE’S BAR

GETHIN

A fter Patrick had left, all the fight had gone from Gethin. He’d been trying so bloody hard. Three years doing not much more than losing hope. For two agonisingly long periods in those years, he’d felt the murderer’s appetite, his obsession , growing unbearably until another man had been killed and raped. And Gethin hadn’t been able to stop it either time. He’d just had to sit through it, feeling the depravity, the zeal, the pleasure the killer had taken from it – not just sexual pleasure, but something else: a weird sense he’d made them all ‘his’ now. By murdering them. Gethin had had to share that.

And because he hadn’t been able to stop it, he’d felt guilty afterwards – like the murders were his fault. As if the real reason he’d failed was because he was as worthless as people thought.

Since meeting Patrick, he’d not only discovered his killer was a priest, he’d actually found a way to do something. To change what kept happening. And true, it was sex, which wasn’t brilliant after what he’d been through, but he’d found two people – Patrick and Stuart – who were willing, and he knew it worked, didn’t he, cos he’d got stronger each time. Even bottoming for Stuart had been surprisingly okay, after some initial queasiness. It helped that he’d known Stuart a long time. It helped that it was to catch his killer. It helped even more that he , Gethin, had consented.

And honestly, it had been the first time since dying that he’d actually felt good about himself. Like he actually had a chance of stopping the murdering scumbag.

That was thanks to Patrick.

Only then, Patrick had taken his head off for doing exactly that.

And then , he’d said he’d killed someone too. And that Gethin was a fucking loser. More or less. It had been a lot to take in.

Oddly, of the three things, Patrick having killed someone was the thing he was least bothered about, which said a bit too much, didn’t it? The killing ought to have been his red line – his ‘run a mile’ warning. He’d gone over it in his head, trying to understand, but it came down to this: he believed Patrick. He believed it had only been one man, accidentally, two hundred years ago and, more importantly, he believed it mattered to Patrick. Mattered as much as Gethin’s murder hadn’t to his killer. He’d served his time, so to speak. Repented. He was obviously remorseful. It was why he was always so bloody meticulous and controlled, wasn’t it? Why he lived in sheer grey terror of it ever happening again.

The getting jealous about him having sex with Stuart, followed by the total character assassination, had been way more personal. Patrick had called him, basically, a whoring wastrel. Said Gethin would’ve failed already without him.

So yeah, after Patrick had gone, Gethin had left Stuart showering and spent the rest of the night in the alley opposite Gayles , stewing. He’d been right: the killer hadn’t struck. Which was lucky since Gethin couldn’t have done a sodding thing if he had. He hadn’t got as much energy from Stuart as when the man had been calmly lying there, letting him and Patrick work together; then he’d spanked a load of that all over Stuart’s bed, hadn’t he?

And anyway, all he’d been able to think about as he’d sat there was Patrick. What he’d said. How disgusted he’d sounded when he’d said it all.

How bang on he’d been.

He’d almost given up then and there, staring across at Gayles bloody bar: the last place he’d ever worked and the place he’d spent most of the last night of his life, so why not his death too? He would have given up – like everyone always said he did – if there’d been anyone else to stop the killer. But there wasn’t, was there? So he’d pulled himself together, refocused, told himself as he had in life that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought: he wanted to do this, so he’d do it. He’d bring his murderer to justice, then move on. Away. From limbo and from Patrick.

That last thought had hurt in some way, but he knew he’d needed to think it. He felt clearer now. Glad Patrick had left, really. Relieved. It made it easier to focus on what he had to do. Instead of feeling like shit about yet another guy who thought he wasn’t worth a damn.

After that, he’d spent his days doing pretty much what Patrick had done: looking for priests and watching Gayles . The murder-feelings had kept darkening – building – so he’d ‘tuned in’, like Patrick had suggested, but he hadn’t got anything more from it. All he’d known was the killer was going to do something soon. Within days. And that he, Gethin, needed a plan.

So, he’d made this one.

The first part had been waiting for Wednesday, since Jonno always closed early that night. Gethin had spent it as normal – keeping his eyes peeled for the murderer as punters came and went. He was careful: Patrick had gone and Stuart was up in Yorkshire for the week, trawling church auctions, so Gethin wouldn’t be able to replace any lost energy. Jonno had just locked up and left.

The place was empty.

Gethin float-walked across the road, making for the open stretch of wall near the balcony, drifting through it without difficulty, emerging in the games alcove. The gambling machines were off and Jonno had covered the pool tables with green cloth, setting the cues back in the wall holder. The room was peaceful – welcoming, actually, despite its dimness. Gethin headed for the bar, solidifying as he went. This should be the easy part.

There wasn’t much on the bar this time of night: Jonno had taken the branded beer flannels home to wash, as always, and everything had been wiped down, making it look weirdly ceremonial. Dignified. One Pride, Gethin had danced up there in nothing but a pair of rainbow Speedos and his cowboy boots. The round of applause he’d got for his hips, he could’ve been Ricky bloody Martin.

Good times , he thought, glad he’d had them. It’d make it easier to move on, which he’d be able to do if this worked. He wasn’t sure it would, but it was worth a try, wasn’t it?

Next to the till, which Jonno would have emptied, were a few charity boxes – Mermaids , Southwark LGBT Network , The Elephant and Castle Community Fund – and some acrylic plastic holders containing drinks menus and business cards for the bar.

Gethin took one of the cards.

Next, he made his way to the photo montage filling the back wall. Hopefully, there’d still be one or two of him in his heyday. He knew Matt hadn’t been here the night he’d been murdered, but he’d said he’d known the place so with a bit of luck, he’d been here on a night someone had got snap-happy and there’d be some of him too. Since ghosts couldn’t write, photos would identify them; then the business card would identify Gayles and maybe, if he delivered them all to the police station, they’d put two and two together and realise the deaths were linked: that the killer used Gayles Bar to find victims.

Maybe then they’d do a stakeout. And they’d catch the bastard. And Gethin could go at last.

There were some big ifs in all that, but it wasn’t the worst plan, he thought. The police station was only half a mile away. He’d have done it ages ago if he’d known there was a way to be solid. To carry stuff there.

He moved along the wall, carefully pulling down each photo that had a shot of him, gathering them on a nearby table. There were more than he’d thought, considering he’d only worked here about five months. He’d been drinking here longer, though. And dancing, playing pool, watching Eurovision with half the bar on the screen at the back. Seeing all the memories laid out like this brought it all back even more than the Ricky Martin thing.

He’d had a ball, hadn’t he?

Patrick might think all that counted was what you ‘achieved’, but Gethin hadn’t ever seen it that way. He’d always figured why not enjoy your time? You only had the one shot, didn’t you? Or so he’d thought. Till he’d met Patrick.

If he could have teared up, he would have done – though he couldn’t have said whether it was seeing his old life or Patrick pissing off. He was a pedantic pain in the arse, obviously, and way messier than Gethin had realised, but after all the years alone, Gethin had liked doing things with someone. He’d liked his company. The fact Patrick wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met, dead or not.

He thought of kissing Patrick over Stuart’s dick. Of sucking Patrick’s dick which, now Gethin had orgasmed a couple of times, he suspected must have cost Patrick far more than he’d said, though he wasn’t clear why he had said that. That was without the fact Patrick cared so much about not scaring people, or that he’d been there for Gethin when no other bugger ever had or that he’d given him so much, or that the guy was hung like a sodding pony or looked cracking towering over him or the way his face un-knotted when he came.

He huffed.

Maybe it was a bit more than Gethin liking his company, he thought. Not that it mattered, really: Patrick obviously liked Stuart, and Gethin had more or less told him he was no better than his rapist-slash-killer, hadn’t he? So now Patrick was gone.

And here he was, looking at old photos from a life that was gone.

He tugged a picture free of the Blu-Tack: the clearest one yet. He was chatting with Tom Thumb – so-called because he was six-foot-five and always asked for his shots in ‘thumbs’ – while Misty Meena, a local drag queen, entertained everyone on the stage beyond.

Bloody nostalgia , he thought. It did things to you. The reality was, if Patrick was here now, he’d have judged every reminder of Gethin’s past: every photo, every story. He’d have seen Gethin’s entire life as a waste of time. What had he said? You lack the discipline to do what has to be done. You’d rather fuck than work towards what matters.

Then the other thing. You’re not worth my time or my energy .

One thing Gethin did know – once people judged you, fully, that was that. They washed their hands of you. Patrick wasn’t coming back. Not even for Stuart.

He set the Misty Meena photo on the table with the others, thinking how perfect Stuart and Patrick were for each other, since they were both all about cost and value. Patrick ought to have jumped at the idea about Stuart’s friend. It hadn’t bothered Gethin in the slightest. If Stuart gained from it, he was more likely to bring guys round, wasn’t he? And since that was exactly what Patrick and Gethin needed – lots of jizz from lots of guys – it’d be win-win-win. Gethin had thought he’d solved a problem.

He sighed, turning back to the montage, well aware Patrick didn’t trust him to solve two and tw– the face went through him like lightning.

He was here.

Matt.

The picture was part-covered amid a group of photos of what looked, from all the rainbows, to be a Pride night. Gethin didn’t recognise it, so it must’ve been after his time.

He plucked it down, heart seeming to hammer even though it wasn’t there. Matt was almost in centre-shot, wearing a green, sequinned vest, dark curls framing his forehead. He looked to be dancing pretty twinkishly with a portly bear in a chest harness, both of them laughing away.

It was painful. Matt looked so free and full of fun. Full of time . He’d had his whole bloody life ahead of him. Who the hell would want to take that away? How could anyone get anything from that?

Gethin looked at it for a while, commiserating with the poor sod. The photo seemed to thrum with old energy. A DJ was onstage at one edge of the shot. Elsewhere, people were dancing, talking, drinking, milling. A few were watching the dancing like they wanted to join in but needed another drink first. Surprisingly, Jonno was one of them. He was watching Matt, expression a bit wistful. Was it Jonno?

Gethin looked closer.

Something seemed to coagulate inside him. The lights from the stage obscured things slightly, but other than that, the photo was clear. A very usual-looking man. Dark-grey hair, tidy beard...

If he’d had breath, it would have gone out of him. He barely noticed his solidity drop.

The photo fluttered to the floor, flipping in the air, landing face up. Matt laughed and danced.

Nausea spilled through Gethin, throat burning where the key had gone in. The killer hadn’t just loitered outside, had he? Hadn’t just stood there, taking photos from his phone. He’d been among them all. Watching. Joining in.

Selecting.

He stared down. Was this the night he’d chosen Matt? Was this the moment ?

Bloody hell , he thought. And suddenly he was rummaging through the photos of himself – nearly a dozen of them, looking. Had the man been here then – watching Gethin too?

He found him in the photo of Tom Thumb and Misty Meena. Standing a little way back from the crowd, face almost in shadows. Not watching Misty Meena. Watching him with Tom.

“What the fuck?” he heard himself mutter. He’d no idea why it felt so horrible – like, the guy had murdered him, for fuck’s sake. Raped his dying body. It didn’t get worse than that, did it? But the idea he’d been watched too. Stalked. Chosen for death. Without even knowing.

He thought again of the selection box. Of the killer implying he hadn’t made the grade. Had Gethin been right ?

It struck him that there might be more recent pictures – that perhaps he might be able to figure out who the killer was watching now . Warn them, somehow. He hadn’t seen the man do more than hang around outside, but perhaps he’d been into Gayles and chosen his next victim before Gethin and Patrick had ever started watching the place.

Feverishly, he searched. Jonno had begun the wall at one end of the room almost two decades ago and worked across, so there was at least a vague order. All the same, Gethin went over them meticulously, searching every face. There were plenty that might be the murderer, but nothing he could be sure of. Middling Mike was so bloody generic.

It took another hour to conclude he either wasn’t here or that Gethin was never going to pick him out.

Disappointed, returning to the table, he gathered up all the photos and put them back on the wall, keeping only the Misty Meena one and the one of Matt. They’d be enough, he told himself. He’d take them to the police station, find a way to make his point clear, then leave them there to be found in the morning.

As to what he’d do then, well, he’d wait, obviously: make sure they got the fucker, then he supposed that’d be that. It didn’t matter all that much, did it? The main thing was the police putting it all together in time to stop it happening again.

In the next few days...

They would, he told himself. They had to.

Still fighting his nausea, Gethin carried the business card and two photos to the downstairs loo. He opened the window above the sink – the only downstairs window not on the alarms, since you’d be lucky to get a starved cat through it – then dropped the stuff through the gap. Having bolted it shut again for Jonno, he released his form and passed through the wall into the delivery bay, solidifying to pick up the things and head onto the street. He’d have to keep his eyes peeled, he thought: stick to roads cos he couldn’t carry cards or photos through walls, but avoid people too, since photos didn’t generally float along of their own accord.

In fact, the roads were nearly empty anyway. A night bus trundled along Walworth Road and he passed a few drunk clubbers and partygoers who wouldn’t have noticed a flying photo if it had been on fire. There were homeless people too, asleep in doorways, everything huddled to them, and a single night jogger minding his own business. Gethin kept to the shadows, angling the photos away from streetlights.

The journey was short – one he could have made even before he’d met Patrick. And Walworth Police Station was easy to find: a big, sandy-brick building with a leafy entrance set back a little from the street, and broad, shallow steps with scarlet railings. It had a twenty-four-hour front desk, so the light was on. Gethin kept moving, looking for an open window somewhere.

He’d circled almost the entire building before he finally spotted a small one high above the car park at the back of the building. He’d never really done any float-climbing, since he hadn’t even mastered float-walking yet, so he stuck to shinning up a nearby drainpipe. He knew it made no odds – he was weightless either way and it wasn’t like he could fall and die, was it? – but it made the climb feel steadier. More possible . As before, he dropped the photos and card through the window, relaxed his solidity and slipped through the wall, stepping into a cramped room consisting of some shelves, a few tubs, some drums of bleach, a broom and a mop.

Picking up the things from Gayles , he headed off through the corridors, searching for a Murder Department or Serial Killer Section or whatever it was called – hoping there’d be wall-signs, hoping he’d pick a good desk and an officer who’d get it. He thought of Patrick finding him helpless in the sperm bank and wondered what he’d think if he saw him now, strolling through the cop shop with his evidence in hand. Whether he’d still think Gethin cared more about shagging than setting things right. It was pretty insulting, really: Gethin had only kept going for the sake of setting things right. And up till meeting Patrick, there hadn’t been any shagging.

Drop it , he told himself. Patrick had made it clear from the get-go that he considered Gethin beneath him. How many times had he said, in some way or another, that all he cared about was Gethin leaving so he wouldn’t take up any more of his energy? Patrick wanted rid of him. He wondered if Patrick would feed off Stuart afterwards. Then felt a small twist of jealousy, though he wasn’t sure about whom.

Which was a bit unsettling. He did like Stuart. And he had enjoyed shagging him, once he’d got through the nausea, but... Again, he pushed away the memories of Patrick ‘feeding’ him in the alley. And all the other times. Draining himself over and over. And what about all the times the ghost had saved his life?

Like, why had Patrick kept saving him? When he’d dragged him off the street that night, how had that been for Patrick’s energy? Or to get Stuart to himself?

Telling himself again to drop it, all of it, Gethin headed down a new corridor to the left. Right now, he couldn’t think about Patrick, he had to concentrate on keeping his form and finding the–

Major Crimes Unit , he read on a glass-fronted door. He paused. Surely that was the one.

Making up his mind, he slid the card and photographs under the door then glided in behind, picking everything up one last time. There was no one here. Just seven or eight desks, arranged in a staggered horseshoe, several metal filing cabinets, a load of computers, some pots of pens, walls plastered with maps, whiteboards and certificates, and lots of stacked plastic in-trays full of cardboard files and loose paperwork.

Now he was actually here, he felt nervous. He looked down at the things in his hand. What if they weren’t enough?

What then?

His plan would work, he told himself. They’d get it. They would.

He picked the desk with a name plate that read Chief Inspector Brian Sullivan .

Sliding a grey cardboard file out of the in-tray, he set it in the centre of the desk, making a background so ‘Brian’ definitely couldn’t miss his display in the morning. He arranged the two photographs on top, pushed together, with the Gayles Bar card just below, then rummaged in the pen pot, eventually finding the red marker he was looking for on a ledge beside the whiteboard. Focusing hard on one last burst of solidity, he pulled off the lid. He knew he wouldn’t be able to write anything, but Patrick had said you could make ‘limbo circles’...

He was right. The circles practically formed themselves – as if the pens had a will of their own. It was fine. He made one around his own face, one around Matt’s, and one around the killer’s face in both photos. The pen seemed to want to keep going.

Round and round in circles, like everything else in bloody limbo.

Trying not to think about that, he set the pen back beside the whiteboard and left.

§

The next day, Thursday, came and went, with the murder-feelings so strong Gethin felt like he was sitting in acid. On Friday, the killer turned up again, watching through the window for maybe ten minutes before leaving, feelings burning through their horrible link. Whoever he’d chosen was in there. Gethin had known then: if the police didn’t figure it out soon, it would be too late.

Saturday night, he’d come back. And gone in.

He’d been in there nearly two hours. Gethin could see the guy he was focusing on: pretty, blond like Gethin, young like Matt. A little bit ragged-looking.

Like he might really need five hundred quid , Gethin thought bitterly.

The killer had bought round after round. Gethin thought he’d seen him spike the last one. And still, he couldn’t do anything. The murder-feelings had skyrocketed – like the killer was high on them, held in only by patience and a thrill that Gethin knew was anticipation. Excitement.

Then, just when Gethin began to think he should have listened to Patrick after all, and blown three hundred sleeping men to make himself strong enough for this, blue lights flashed down the road.

And the police rolled up outside. Two cars.

Gethin could have wept with relief.

He’d done it. He’d sodding done it. He wouldn’t need to stop anything...

He thought it right up until they emerged again.

With Jonno in tow.