The Society of Dirty Hearts Page 3

  Joanne Butcher didn’t look like her photo. Her livid face was bloated and blistered. The eye sockets appeared empty, but peering closer Julian saw dozens of milk-white maggots squirming in them. Her lips were drawn back in a grotesque parody of a smile and a black tongue protruded through them as if blowing a raspberry. Something that might’ve been dried vomit or blood was crusted over her chin. Watery pus oozed from teeth marks that Henry had inflicted on her throat and face – at least, Julian assumed Henry had inflicted them. If it hadn’t been for her reddish-purple hair, which lay so lankly against her skull that it looked painted on, he wouldn’t have been able to identify her. She was wearing much the same outfit as Mia Bradshaw had done in The Cut – leather jacket, red plaid miniskirt, ripped fishnets, military boots. Her skin showed green with a marbling of purple-black veins through her tights. There were things crawling all over her, not only maggots, but also fat blood-sucking flies, beetles and mites. They moved like groping fingers under her clothes.

  Julian stood staring at the corpse as if it was something beautiful, mesmerising. A dribble of vomit escaped his mouth and dropped onto it. Automatically, he swiped the back of his hand across his chin. A sound gradually seeped into his shocked senses – a gnawing sound. He shone the torch at Henry, who was hunkered down chewing on something that was maybe a stick, or maybe something else, something ripped from Joanne Butcher’s corpse. More vomit came up. He spat it out and snapped, “Drop that. Drop it!”

  Henry jumped up and retreated a little, the thing dangling out of his mouth like a withered tongue. “Stay,” Julian said, in a voice of warning. He moved towards the dog. The dog turned and ran in the direction from which they’d come. He gave chase, stumbling over roots, blinking as branches lashed his face. He quickly lost sight of Henry, but he didn’t stop running. He ran all the way back to the house as if he was being chased by a ghost. His dad was still up.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” asked Robert, looking in alarm at Julian’s scratched, sweat-streaked face.

  “I…found…her,” Julian gasped, struggling to find enough breath to speak.

  “Found who?”

  “Joanne…Butcher.”

  The already deep lines etched into Robert’s face deepened. “Are you sure?”

  “Dead sure.”

  Robert’s voice grew hesitant. “Is she…is she dead?”

  Julian nodded. “She’s over by the sawmill. Rotting.” He dropped onto the sofa, covering his face with his hand.

  “The sawmill,” exclaimed Robert, as if that explained the matter. “I’ll bet she overdosed. I don’t know how many bloody times I’ve told the council they need to tear that place down. Perhaps now they’ll listen.” He reached for the phone.

  “What you doing?”

  “What do you think I’m doing? I’m phoning the police.”

  A short time later several police cars arrived at the gates, sirens screaming. Robert buzzed them in, fretting about Christine being woken. She didn’t wake, though. She lay wrapped securely in deep, medicated sleep. A thickset man with a police veteran’s moustache introduced himself as detective inspector Tom Benson. He told Julian to lead him to the body, which Julian reluctantly did. Although it wasn’t a cold night, he couldn’t help but shiver as they made their way there. He itched for a joint to take the edge off his nerves. If anything, the smell seemed even worse than before. It hit him in the gut like a fist. He doubled up, heaving. He couldn’t bring himself to go within sight of the body again.

  It was getting light by the time Julian finished giving his statement. “How long will you be in town?” asked Tom Benson.

  “A week or so.”

  “Good. I’ll probably need to talk to you again.”

  While Robert showed the policeman out, Julian went to the bathroom. He stood under the shower a long time, scrubbing his skin as if it was polluted. Before leaving the bathroom, he listened at the door. He didn’t want to bump into his dad, have to hear him say, what did I tell you. Henry was asleep on his bed. There was no sign of the withered thing. He woke the dog and shooed him out the room. Bone-tired, he lay down and tentatively closed his eyes. He knew he’d see the corpse, and he did. He seemed to smell it too. He lay there for as long as he could bear. Then he got up, flung open a window and sucked in great lungfuls of the morning.

  Chapter 4

  When Julian dragged himself to breakfast, Christine said in a concerned tone, “You look as if you haven’t slept a wink.” She made no mention of the previous night’s events. Julian noticed his dad peering at him over his newspaper. Robert gave a tiny shake of his head.

  After breakfast, Julian said to him, “You haven’t told her, have you?”

  “No. I don’t want to worry her.”

  “She’s going to find out sooner or later.”

  “I know, I know,” muttered Robert, sorting through his briefcase, obviously not wanting to hear it.

  “She worries more not knowing what’s going on.” Getting no reply, Julian continued, “If you don’t tell her, I will.”

  “No, you bloody well won’t.” Anger flared in Robert’s voice. He reined it in with a steadying breath. “Look, I’ll tell her this evening when there’s time to do it properly. Just do me a favour and keep quiet until then, will you?”

  “What are you two whispering about?” asked Christine, approaching them.

  “I was just telling Julian to make sure he gets his head down to some hard work today,” Robert lied with a smoothness that drew a surprised glance from Julian.

  “He will. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Robert bent to kiss his wife. He kissed her twice – once on the lips and once, with an almost fearful tenderness, on the paralysed side of her face. “See you later, darling. And don’t overdo it in the garden today.” With a last half-warning, half-pleading look at Julian, he left the house. Julian watched him get into his car and accelerate out the driveway.

  “Jules,” his mum said, glancing meaningfully in the direction of his bedroom.

  Taking the hint, Julian headed for his room. He sat on his bed, lecture notes spread over the duvet in case his mum or Wanda checked up on him. He stared out the window at the forest, wondering if his dad was right about the way Joanne Butcher had died, or if there was something more sinister to it. The only thing he felt sure about was that she’d died without anyone she loved around her. He thought about her mum, the teddy-bear clutched to her chest, her eyes glazed and pleading. She’d know by now that her daughter was dead. Mia Bradshaw might know, too. And there’d be others – grandparents, aunties, uncles, cousins. All of them united in grief, anger and incomprehension. He heaved a sigh for the waste and pain of it.

  The phone rang in the hallway. A moment later his mum knocked and said, “Jules, Mike Hill’s on the phone for you.”

  Julian’s heart accelerated a few beats. Mike Hill was the editor of the local newspaper. Surely there could only be one reason for him phoning. He hurried to the door, hoping Mike hadn’t let the cat out of the bag. From the way his mum looked askance at him as he took the phone from her, he guessed he hadn’t. He went out into the garden, away from prying ears. “Hi, Mr Hill.”

  “Hi, Julian. I heard what happened.”

  “How?”

  “Ah, c’mon now, Julian, you know what this town’s like. It’s too small for something as big as this to be kept under wraps for long. How are you? Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. A bit shook up.”

  “That’s only to be expected. It must’ve been awful. ” Mike paused. Here it comes, thought Julian. “I was wondering if you’d mind coming over to the house this morning for a proper chat.”

  “I don’t know, I’m pretty tired.”

  “It won’t take long.” Like a salesman sweetening a deal, Mike added, “And Eleanor would love to see you.”

  Eleanor was Mike’s daughter. Julian had gone with her for a while in sixth-form. She was a year younger than him. He’d finished their
relationship when he went away to university, citing the usual reasons – he wanted to be free to experience university life to the full, he didn’t want to have to lie to her about what he was getting up to. She’d cried, but said she understood. Said she wanted them to still be friends. He’d often wondered since then whether he’d made a mistake. None of the girls he’d met at university had come close to her. They all seemed to be trying on modified personas. He’d never known Eleanor try to be anything but what she was naturally – just a kind, sweet girl.

  “Okay, Mr Hill, I’ll come now.” Julian hung up and went back inside.

  “What did Mike want?” asked Christine.

  “I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to go out.”

  “What about your studies?”

  “I won’t be long.”

  The Hill’s lived on a street of houses more modest in size than Julian’s parents’, though still large. Julian had always liked their house. It was old and comfortable, with warm, cluttered rooms. Its lattice windows gave light and privacy. There were plenty of corners and nooks to hide in. Mike Hill greeted him at the door. He looked the same as ever – pale, smiling eyes with a keen glint in them, bald pate surrounded by long thinning hair, cigarette planted in the side of his mouth. He gave Julian an appraising look. “Well, I can see someone’s been burning the candle at both ends and the middle,” he said, speaking through his cigarette.

  “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  “I’ll bet.” Mike ushered Julian inside. “And I bet you haven’t got much sleep in the last few months, either.”

  Julian gave him a quick sidelong glance. “Why do you say that?”

  “I went to university once, too, you know. Seeing you takes me right back to those days. A bit of advice, I know you think you’re invincible, but no one is. You’ve got to learn to pace yourself.”

  Eleanor came down the stairs a little hesitantly. Something in Julian’s chest squeezed at the sight of her. He hadn’t seen her for five months. Just five short months, but she was changed. Her hair was shorter, darker, more styled. She was slimmer, too, more angular, less cute. Yet, as she drew nearer, and he saw the expression in her eyes, her smile, he realised with relief that the change was only surface. Like his mum, like everything real and good, she was unchanged through change. “Hi, Jules,” she said.

  “Hi,” he said back.

  “C’mon,” said Mike. “You two can catch up once I’m done.”

  Julian followed him into a study, its shelves overloaded with books and newspapers. Mike seated himself at a desk. “So tell me all about it,” he said, pen and notepad at the ready.

  Julian told him. He described how Joanne Butcher’s corpse looked, how it smelt. Mike’s eyebrows drew together. He swallowed hard. “Jesus.”

  “Will you put that in your paper?”

  “People don’t need to read that. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t go repeating it to Eleanor, either.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. Any word on how Joanne Butcher died?”

  “No. It’ll be a few days before the coroner’s report comes in.”

  “I heard some…things about her.”

  “You mean, like she was prostituting herself.”

  “So it’s true.”

  “I can’t say for certain, but I think so.”

  Julian puffed his cheeks, shaking his head. “What would make someone do that?”

  “Heroin.”

  “Seriously, you think she was an addict.”

  “I don’t know. Again, I’m just making an informed guess. You probably don’t realise this, Julian, but there are buildings in this town where every room’s littered with used needles and scorched foil.”

  “I’m finding out a lot about this town I didn’t know.”

  A knock came at the door. “Are you two nearly finished?” enquired Eleanor.

  “Be out in a minute, honey,” said Mike. Stubbing out his cigarette with just a touch more force than was necessary, he added to Julian, “Go on. She’s waiting for you.”

  Julian was glad to leave the study. Mike Hill understood why he’d split up with Eleanor. In his opinion, it was the best thing that could’ve happened. Julian knew this because Eleanor had repeated it to him when he’d phoned one time in a drunken haze of guilt to apologise for the way he’d treated her. He also knew, or rather sensed, that Mike Hill wouldn’t be anywhere near as understanding if Julian hurt his daughter a second time.

  When Julian saw Eleanor, he felt that squeezing again. “Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  They walked slowly along the street, standing close, but not touching. Julian resisted an urge to reach for Eleanor’s hand. It was a warm day. She wore a vest top. Her arms were pale and smooth, unblemished. He suddenly found himself thinking about Mia Bradshaw – about the cuts on her arm. He shoved the image away to a darker place in his mind. “Dad told me what happened,” Eleanor said. “That poor girl.”

  Julian made no reply. He didn’t want to talk about that with Eleanor. He wanted to keep her as far away from it as possible. “It makes me feel like crying to think of her dying there like that,” she went on.

  Maybe she didn’t die there, thought Julian. “So how’s college?” he asked.

  A hint of a frown drew Eleanor’s her eyebrows together. “You know, Jules, sometimes you really remind me of my dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s not necessarily a compliment.”

  They walked on in silence for a while – they’d always been comfortable in each other’s silence. Julian had never met another girl he felt that way with. “How long have you been back?” asked Eleanor.

  “A couple of days.”

  “Oh.”

  That ‘Oh’ was full of meaning. It meant, so how come you didn’t let me know you were in town? “I would’ve phoned but I’ve been so busy with…” Julian was going to say studying, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie, not to her.

  “With what?”

  Julian shrugged and said limply, “You know, this and that.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said again. “I see.”

  “If you like, we could do something tonight. Catch a movie, go for a drink, whatever.”

  Eleanor smiled. It was a simple, open smile, the only one she had in her facial vocabulary. “That’d be good.”

  She made to turn into a narrow lane that branched off from the street. Julian hesitated to follow her. The lane led beyond the edge of town to a meadow where there was an old hay-barn. As boyfriend and girlfriend, they used to go there often to talk and make love. In its quiet, grass-smelling gloom they’d gone from early eager fumblings to slow, tender explorations of each other. Julian resisted a groin-tingling tug. He couldn’t allow himself to go back there, not unless he was certain that’s what he wanted. And he wasn’t.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  In spite of himself, as Julian looked at Eleanor’s eyes, her lips, her neck, the tug intensified. Not wanting to take the chance that he might give into it, he nodded and said, “I’ll pick you up around seven.” Then he hurried away, leaving her standing staring after him. As he drove past her, she raised one flawless arm to wave. “You, boy, are a fucking idiot,” he muttered to himself, waving back.

  His phone rang. It was Kyle. “Fancy meeting up tonight, bro?” he asked.

  “Can’t. I’m going out with Eleanor.”

  “What? Like on a date, or some shit like that?”

  “No, not a date. Just two friends getting together.”

  Kyle sniggered. “Yeah, right.”

  “Yes, right, exactly,” Julian snapped.

  “No need to get shitty. I was just kidding. Seriously, though, bro, you know she’s still hung up on you. Why is beyond me, but she is. Every time I see her she’s like, have you spoken to Jules? How’s he doing? And I’m like, fuck Jules, I’m free and single and here. But she doesn’t even notice me, bro. Not li
ke that. So go easy on her, ’cos she’s one of the good ones.”

  “I know.” There was the hint of a sigh in Julian’s voice. “Later, yeah.”

  When Julian got home, he went straight through to his bedroom. He didn’t want to see his mum, have to skirt around her questions. He logged onto his computer. An email alert flashed in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. He clicked on it. ‘Morsus confirmed you as a friend on Facebook’ read the message. He eagerly followed the link to her profile. Underneath her photo it said ‘Surely there has to be a reason for all this pain. A purpose…’ And on her wall she’d written ‘R.I.P Jo. I love you’. Under her hobbies, she’d listed ‘drinking, cutting, suicide’. He looked at her photos. There were photos of her alone, pouting, sneering, brandishing her cuts like badges of honour. There were photos of her and Joanne Butcher kissing each other fully on the mouth. And there were photos of them with boys their own age and men in their twenties, drinking, smoking, simulating sex. One in particular caught his attention. She was sat with her arm around a boy kissing him on the cheek. He had no top on and his body looked stripped, like a junkie boxer’s. His hair was shaved to the skull. On his chest he had a tattoo of a wolf baring its teeth. He had to be Mia’s brother, Jake – he had the same face as her, only thinner, more sunken. There was the same sullen pain in his eyes, too.