Read Online Whispers of the Dead by Simon Beckett - Free Book Online
Authors: Simon Beckett
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smell has grown stronger. Finally, you can see it: a
cardboard shoebox, its sides soaked and rotting.
The box starts to disintegrate when you try to lift it, wet and sagging from
the weight inside.You quickly set it down again.Your fingers feel clumsy and
strange as you take hold of the lid, your chest tight. You're scared, but
excitement easily outweighs your fear.
Slowly, you remove the shoebox lid.
The cat is a dirty mound of ginger. Its half-closed eyes are pale and dull,
like deflated balloons after a party. Insects are crawling in its fur, beetles
scuttling from the daylight. You stare, rapt, as a fat worm coils and contracts,
dripping from its ear. Taking the stick, you prod the cat. Nothing happens.
You prod again, harder. Again, nothing. A word forms in your mind, one
you've heard before, but never really comprehended until now.
Dead.
You remember the cat as it was. A fat, bad-tempered torn, a thing of spite
and claws. Now it's . . . nothing. How can the living animal you remember
have become this rotting clump of fur? The question fills your head, too huge
for you to hold.You lean closer, as though if you look hard enough you'll find
the answer . . .
.. . . and suddenly you're jerked away. The neighbour's face is contorted
with anger, but there's also something there you don't recognize. It's only years
later that you identify it as disgust.
'What in God's name are you . . . ? Oh, you sick little bastard!'
There is more shouting, then and later, back at the house. You don't try to
explain what you did, because you don't understand yourself. But neither the
angry words nor the punishment wipe away the memory of what you saw.
Or what you felt, and still feel even now, nestling in the pit of your stomach.
An overwhelming sense of wonder, and of burning, insatiable curiosity.
You're five years old. And this is how it starts.
Everything seemed to slow down as the knife came towards me. I grabbed for
it, but I was always going to be too late. The blade slid through my grip,
slicing my palm and fingers to the bone. I could feel the hot wetness of
blood smearing my hand as my legs gave way under me. It pooled on the
black and white floor tiles as I slid down the wall, soaking the front of my
shirt.
I looked down and saw the knife handle protruding obscenely from my
stomach and opened my mouth to scream . . .
'No!'
I bolted upright, gasping. I could feel the blood on me, hot and
wet. I thrashed off the sheets, frantically trying to see my stomach in
the dim moonlight. But the skin was unmarked. There was no knife,
no blood. Just a sheen of clammy sweat, and the angry welt of the
scar just under my ribs.
Christ. I sagged with relief, recognizing my hotel room, seeing I
was alone in it.
Just a dream.
My heart rate was starting to return to normal, my pulse ebbing
in my ears. I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and shakily sat
up. The clock on the bedside cabinet said five thirty. The alarm was
set for an hour's time, but it wasn't worth trying to sleep again, even
if I'd wanted to.
I got up stiffly and switched on the light. I was beginning to regret
agreeing to help Tom with the examination of the body from the cabin. A shower and breakfast. Things will look better then.
I spent fifteen minutes running through exercises to strengthen my
abdominal muscles, then went into the bathroom and turned on the
shower. I turned my face up to the hot spray, letting the needles of
water sluice away the lingering effects of the dream.
By the time I emerged, the last vestiges of sleep had been washed
away. There was a coffee maker in the room, so I set it going as I dressed
and powered up my laptop. It would be late morning in the UK, and I
sipped black coffee while I checked my emails. There was nothing
urgent; I replied to the ones I needed to and left the rest for later.
The restaurant downstairs had opened for breakfast, but I was the
only customer. I passed on the
cardboard shoebox, its sides soaked and rotting.
The box starts to disintegrate when you try to lift it, wet and sagging from
the weight inside.You quickly set it down again.Your fingers feel clumsy and
strange as you take hold of the lid, your chest tight. You're scared, but
excitement easily outweighs your fear.
Slowly, you remove the shoebox lid.
The cat is a dirty mound of ginger. Its half-closed eyes are pale and dull,
like deflated balloons after a party. Insects are crawling in its fur, beetles
scuttling from the daylight. You stare, rapt, as a fat worm coils and contracts,
dripping from its ear. Taking the stick, you prod the cat. Nothing happens.
You prod again, harder. Again, nothing. A word forms in your mind, one
you've heard before, but never really comprehended until now.
Dead.
You remember the cat as it was. A fat, bad-tempered torn, a thing of spite
and claws. Now it's . . . nothing. How can the living animal you remember
have become this rotting clump of fur? The question fills your head, too huge
for you to hold.You lean closer, as though if you look hard enough you'll find
the answer . . .
.. . . and suddenly you're jerked away. The neighbour's face is contorted
with anger, but there's also something there you don't recognize. It's only years
later that you identify it as disgust.
'What in God's name are you . . . ? Oh, you sick little bastard!'
There is more shouting, then and later, back at the house. You don't try to
explain what you did, because you don't understand yourself. But neither the
angry words nor the punishment wipe away the memory of what you saw.
Or what you felt, and still feel even now, nestling in the pit of your stomach.
An overwhelming sense of wonder, and of burning, insatiable curiosity.
You're five years old. And this is how it starts.
Everything seemed to slow down as the knife came towards me. I grabbed for
it, but I was always going to be too late. The blade slid through my grip,
slicing my palm and fingers to the bone. I could feel the hot wetness of
blood smearing my hand as my legs gave way under me. It pooled on the
black and white floor tiles as I slid down the wall, soaking the front of my
shirt.
I looked down and saw the knife handle protruding obscenely from my
stomach and opened my mouth to scream . . .
'No!'
I bolted upright, gasping. I could feel the blood on me, hot and
wet. I thrashed off the sheets, frantically trying to see my stomach in
the dim moonlight. But the skin was unmarked. There was no knife,
no blood. Just a sheen of clammy sweat, and the angry welt of the
scar just under my ribs.
Christ. I sagged with relief, recognizing my hotel room, seeing I
was alone in it.
Just a dream.
My heart rate was starting to return to normal, my pulse ebbing
in my ears. I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and shakily sat
up. The clock on the bedside cabinet said five thirty. The alarm was
set for an hour's time, but it wasn't worth trying to sleep again, even
if I'd wanted to.
I got up stiffly and switched on the light. I was beginning to regret
agreeing to help Tom with the examination of the body from the cabin. A shower and breakfast. Things will look better then.
I spent fifteen minutes running through exercises to strengthen my
abdominal muscles, then went into the bathroom and turned on the
shower. I turned my face up to the hot spray, letting the needles of
water sluice away the lingering effects of the dream.
By the time I emerged, the last vestiges of sleep had been washed
away. There was a coffee maker in the room, so I set it going as I dressed
and powered up my laptop. It would be late morning in the UK, and I
sipped black coffee while I checked my emails. There was nothing
urgent; I replied to the ones I needed to and left the rest for later.
The restaurant downstairs had opened for breakfast, but I was the
only customer. I passed on the
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