Dark Vision Read online

  Even back then, when I was little, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew they’d think I was nuts. Distraught after losing my parents. Unbalanced. All of which may well have been true, but it’s happened so many times since that I now accept it as a part of my screwed-up life. The lesson? Don’t touch people. Ever.

  And yes, brothers and sisters, that whole not-touching thing has been fantastic for my sex life. My non-existent sex life. I may be the only twenty-six-year-old virgin left in Liverpool. Or possibly the world.

  Now, out of the blue, along comes this man – this Gabriel Cormac – with his wry comments and his violet eyes and his white skin over perfectly sculpted biceps. Making me want to reach out and touch him. A lot. I clenched my hands into fists, and shoved them into my pockets.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you properly,’ I lied, deciding avoidance was the best policy. Hey, it’s worked for years, why change now?

  ‘Yes you can, Lily,’ he replied, looking incredibly amused. And incredibly smug.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘I know a lot about you, Lily McCain. And you could know a lot about me as well, if you’d been polite enough to shake my hand …’

  Yeah, I thought. Like how you die; the day you first cough up blood; how depressed you feel the night you decide to take that whole bottle of diazepam … all of which I’ve encountered before. Quite the head-fuck. And somehow, I had the feeling that the man with the eyes would have a very interesting future ahead of him. One I wanted no part of. He already seemed to know far more about me than I was comfortable with.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, his gaze drifting over my shoulder and towards the stage. ‘The band’s on. Tell me what you think.’

  Glad of the distraction, I turned away from his piercing look, and watched as the stage lighting – set to ‘moody’ – kicked in. The band was already in place, dark silhouettes against the purple haze. A spotlight homed in on the girl singer, and a collective ‘wow’ hummed through the audience. She cradled the mic like a lover, held it close to lusciously full lips painted a vivid blood red. Hair you could only describe as sable flowed in thick waves over her shoulders, trailing over creamy white skin to a dramatically plunging neckline. Boobs you’d kill for, or at least spend a good few grand paying Dr Feelgood to create for you.

  She waited until the crowd stilled, which miraculously it did. Her voice purred into the mic, a whisper of liquid honey backed by a steady thrum of bass. A low murmur ran through the room as the pace picked up, a seduction of sound so sensual that I started to feel a responding thrum in my hips. I looked around the Coconut Shy. Everyone was watching her, even the bouncers at the back and the professionally bored girl who ran the coat check-in.

  I looked back at the band, and let out a quiet yelp. They’d changed. They were … skeletons. The singer was nothing but bone, microphone grasped by yellowing metacarpals, the sable hair gone and replaced by the curved dome of a bare skull, glowing in the spotlight.

  The enchanted swaying of the crowd continued, mesmerised. No recoiling in horror. No gasps of shock. I was clearly the only one witnessing this transformation. Lucky old me.

  I knew what would happen next, and leaned back against the bar in preparation, feeling the beer bottle slip from my fingers and smash unheard on the floor. The buzzing started, then the heat, then the slow-motion slip from sanity. It feels like fainting, on steroids.

  I woke up God knows how long afterwards, with my face resting against something warm and hard. Warm and hard, and pounding with a throbbing heartbeat. Strong arms around me; gentle breath on my face. It was Gabriel, and my head was nestled against his chest.

  My instincts didn’t know which way to react: panic, because I was in a man’s arms, or regret because I knew I had to get out of them. And soon.

  ‘It’s all right, Lily,’ he said, that whisper straight into my brain again. His arms tightened slightly, pulling my body closer against his.

  ‘No, no it’s not … you don’t understand,’ I stammered, wriggling to try and break free, and succeeding only in increasing the contact between us. He smiled, his eyes hypnotic, and reached out to my face. He stroked my cheek, ran his fingers slowly along my jaw, held me still.

  ‘I do understand. And it’s all right. Just relax.’

  I felt his skin burning into mine, and a whoosh of sensation I’d never experienced before. Like my nerves had been jolted with electricity.

  I saw it then: the vision. Me. Him. Naked. Tangled in sheets, with a whole lot of kissing going on. My body on fire with need, his fingers stroking places that had never been touched before.

  As quickly as it came, it went. I screwed up my eyes, tried to shake it from my mind. Reality. Back to it, pronto, girl. Get loose, get up, get away.

  I clambered to my feet, holding on to the bar to keep myself upright, feeling about as steady as Bambi on speed. Realised, luckily, that nobody had noticed, and if they had they’d assumed I was just drunk. The band was still on, still human. Still holding the whole room in thrall.

  Gabriel stood up with a lot more grace than I had, which I don’t suppose would have been hard. He looked at me quizzically, his head tilted to one side, the violet eyes shining from his undeniably beautiful face.

  ‘What did you see?’ he asked. ‘Was it interesting? Fun?’

  I was so not going to answer that question, and instead, once I’d regained the power of speech, parried with one of my own. A big one.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend, Lily. But more to the point – who are you? Did you know that Lily McCain isn’t even your real name? And what do you know about your parents?’

  I slammed my fists into his chest as hard as I could, and shoved. I suspect it was only the element of surprise that made him budge, as I’m not blessed with superhuman strength. Just superhuman weirdness. I ran for the door, and out into the chill October night.

  I stood in the street, heart racing, the driving rain slapping my face like dozens of icy hands.

  I scanned the road for a black cab, felt the soaking splash of tyres hitting a puddle as a car screeched in response to my upraised hand.

  I climbed in and slammed the door behind me, hard.

  He was right, I thought, as the engine revved and the boxy black cab started to cut its way through the neon night. What do I know about my parents?

  Chapter Two

  I headed for safety: the Liverpool Gazette office. Not home – where all I’d find would be a cold bed, junk mail, and the tangle of my own thoughts – but work. The place where I’d been gainfully employed for the last five years, and the place where I knew I’d find the closest thing I had to a friend.

  The office is vast and open plan, mainly empty at night, like a call centre without the staff. And without the cleaners: a thick layer of dust always seems to coat everything, even the wide green leaves of the neglected potted palms that are scattered around the hangar-like room.

  Even in the day, the lighting is industrial, due to the fact that there are no windows. The perfect working environment for the creative mind. Not.

  I swiped my security card, nodded at the sole guard, who was busy reading a Jackie Collins novel at the front desk, and ran into the newsroom.

  Clusters of desks were set up in small pods according to their function: news desk, reporters, feature writers, subeditors, designers. Upholstered swivel chairs that had seen better days were dotted around at various angles, as though invisible bodies had abandoned them mid-swing.

  I heard Carmel on the phone, saw her leaning forward with her face in her hands, dark hair falling on to the desk as she sighed in exasperation.

  ‘Yes, Mr McCauley, I do understand. The alien invaders are coming, attracted by the wheelie bins. Because they’re purple. I get it. What I’d suggest is this – why don’t you go outside, and spray paint your wheelie bin a different colour?’

  She paused, taking the opportunity to bang her head gently on the desk, then said, ‘Yes. I think orange would loo
k lovely. Goodbye, Mr McCauley. Sleep well, and don’t forget to take those tablets the doctor gave you.’

  She hung up and met my eyes as I sat down opposite her.

  ‘Aliens?’ I said, raising my eyebrows. ‘Again?’

  The night shift at the Gazette is notorious for the freaks and weirdos that crawl out of the woodwork, feeling the need to communicate their fears and paranoia. You need to be part news hound and part psychiatric nurse to cope with it. It’s probably why I’ve always felt so comfortable there. I don’t have to come in to the office during the day, and by 2 a.m. my life seems comparatively normal next to the stories that pour in to Carmel’s ‘news’ hotline.

  ‘Yep,’ she said, ‘again. Mr McCauley calls me most nights, bless him. He’s become almost a friend. In fact, I’m starting to believe him … Maybe I should be looking for a different job.’

  She stared at me, taking in my skin, which I knew was even paler than usual, my wet hair and generally freaked-out countenance.

  ‘You all right?’ she said. ‘I only ask because your pupils are so dilated they look like dinner plates. Have you been dropping pills and shagging boy bands?’

  I snorted with laughter: she knew it was the last thing I’d have been up to, even though she’d said a million times I should. Carmel O’Grady thought my life would be a whole lot better if I just got what she termed ‘a good seeing to’. We’ve agreed to differ on that.

  ‘No, I’m not so good,’ I replied, feeling some of the wired energy drain from my body as I started to feel safe. Well, safer, anyway. Carmel had been adopted into a family of six boys when she was a baby, and could kick the shit out of any man, woman or beast who looked at her the wrong way. And as we are friends, I knew I’d fall within the circle of protection should any passing strangers – say, hot guys called Gabriel – have followed me to the building.

  ‘Tell me all,’ she said, leaning back in her chair. The phone rang, shrill and insistent in the silent office. I looked a question at her.

  ‘Ignore it. It’ll be that man in Freshfield telling me the demon squirrels are in his garden.’

  ‘What if they are? What if you’re missing the scoop of the decade?’

  ‘Stop avoiding the issue. What’s wrong?’

  I wondered how I was going to explain everything without sounding like a total lunatic. Carmel is used to me and my eccentricities, but I have an underlying suspicion she thinks I should be accompanying Mr McCauley on his trips to pick up his clozapine.

  ‘I met this man …’

  ‘That’s a good start,’ she interrupted. I gave her a look, and she made a silly zipping gesture across her lips.

  Deep breaths. Out with it – some of it, at least.

  ‘I met this man, in the club. And he was … well, he was gorgeous, but that’s not really relevant. I just thought it would keep your interest level up. I’ve never met him before, but he knew my name. And then he said it isn’t my real name. And then he asked what I know about my parents, who are kind of dead. And then I knocked him over and ran away. And then I got a cab and came here. And Frank outside is reading The Stud, which is odd, ’cause I thought he’d be more of an Andy McNab man.’

  I stopped and sagged back against the chair. I’d run out of energy. It sounded even weirder out loud. Even though I’d left out the good bits, like the skeleton singers and the sweaty sex.

  ‘Can I speak now?’ she asked.

  I nodded, feeling slightly nauseous at the thought of even having this conversation.

  ‘OK,’ she said, frowning in concentration. She does that a lot, and the two creases at the top of her forehead are the only things that mar an otherwise exceptionally pretty face. Despite her solidly Scouse-Irish name, Carmel O’Grady was born to an Egyptian mother, and her heritage shows in her deep-honey skin, high cheekbones and wide, whisky-coloured eyes.

  ‘So, first off, Lily – if that is in fact your real name – why do you seem to be taking this bloke seriously? Surely he’s just a random nutter trying to get your attention? Probably wants you to listen to his band’s demo, or something …’

  She had a point. Bands and their PRs go to extraordinary lengths to get in the paper. I’ve been offered bribes in every shape and form, from chocolate drumsticks to 60-year-old bottles of Scotch. I’ve remained, of course, too noble to accept. By which I mean that Carmel always takes them instead. And the way she ate those chocolate drumsticks would have made a docker blush.

  ‘I don’t know. It felt … real. And I don’t know much about my parents. They died when I was six, in London. They went out to work one day and didn’t come back. I was told it was a car crash, and then before I knew anything, I was whisked up here to live with my nan, who I never even knew existed until then.’

  She nodded. She knows all this already. I’m not much of a sharer when it comes to my past – there isn’t much to share – but Carmel has heard versions of most of it, dragged out of me during late-night chats. I was really just saying it out loud to straighten my own head, and she was letting me.

  ‘And having met your nan,’ said Carmel, doing a fake shudder, ‘I can only presume she was the last resort. I don’t think I’d even want to leave my dog in her care. But what about the name thing? Presumably you have all the usual stuff – birth certificate, passport?’

  I paused. Made myself think about the little brown envelope of paperwork I have back at the flat. She was right. I do have all that stuff – and until now, I’ve had no reason to question it. It was only my encounter with the head-fuck Superman clone that had nudged something loose.

  ‘I do, yes. But there is something … something at the back of my brain that wants to get out. I don’t remember much about that time, or the time before it. And who’d want to? It was all horrible. But after the funeral, I remember being in a small room with my nan, and some men in black … I assumed they were with the undertakers. I’d never seen them before. Nan was scared of them, I could tell. The whole thing was odd anyway, with hindsight – I mean, it was at night. Who holds a funeral at night?’

  ‘Goths?’ said Carmel, one eyebrow up.

  I ignored her, which is often for the best. ‘And they were handing her a package,’ I continued, ‘and telling her something about it all being for my own good … and the next day I moved here. Everything changed. Everything. And I think … I think that might have included my name.’

  ‘And you’re only just remembering this now?’ said Carmel, incredulously.

  ‘Yes!’ I snapped, feeling as angry with myself as her. It was all there, but hazy, like a scene from a film I’d watched as a child. ‘And I know that’s weird! If I could just drag it out of my memory …’

  It was so frustrating. Here I was, the human oracle, able to see any number of futures I had no interest in – but completely incapable of seeing into my own past.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘maybe we should call Mr McCauley. See if he has a spare alien mind probe lying around. Look, this is probably nothing, but I can see you’re upset. Why don’t you tell me what you do know – when they were killed, where, their names – and I’ll log on and see what I can find out for you? It’s not like I’ve got a newspaper to produce, or anything. And while I do that, you go and get us some coffee from the machine. I’m still not convinced your drink wasn’t spiked.’

  I nodded gratefully, and recited the little information I had. Carmel had access to online libraries for all the newspapers in the UK, and was a whizz at pulling out facts and stats. It was how she revised for her weekly pub quizzes and filled in the down time between calls from the Prank Parade. She jotted it all down, and I stood up, fishing for change in my pocket. I paused, looked at her.

  ‘Am I being mad?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Probably. But I’m not one to quibble over an identity crisis, am I?’

  Carmel has spent years and a small fortune trying to trace her birth mother, to no avail. She’s in an off-spell at the moment, but I know it’s only a matter of time before she start
s again.

  ‘Now, shoo!’ she said, gesturing me away with her hands. ‘I have magic to work! Get me a cappuccino …’

  I left her, and ambled towards the break room. The canteen closes at night – there aren’t enough staff to justify opening it – but one wall is banked with vending machines offering soggy BLTs and Mars bars that usually get stuck in the mechanical arms on their way down. The lights were flickering on and off, and I blinked to adjust to the fit-inducing rhythm.

  My phone buzzed, and I reflexively pulled it out to check. A text. I can help, it said. Meet me at Lime Street Costa tomorrow morning at 10. From an unknown number, but somehow I instinctively realised it was from him. Gabriel. The list of things he knew about me obviously extended to include my phone details. He was one scary dude.

  I ignored it, and with shaky hands approached the drinks machine. It took three attempts and robbed me of £1.50, but I finally managed to extricate two steaming cups of brown gunk. I pulled my sleeves down and wrapped the ends around my hands to prevent scalding as I gripped the thin plastic cups, and walked back to the newsroom.

  Carmel was sitting staring at her computer, that frown doing overtime as she scanned the screen. I put the drinks down and waited for her to speak. Wondered if I should reply to the text; if I should meet him in the morning; if I should just buy a ticket to Rio and reinvent myself as a cocktail waitress.

  ‘This is odd,’ she said, tapping at the screen with a pencil.

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ I replied, sipping bitter black coffee so hot my lips recoiled in protest.

  ‘No, it’s really odd. I can’t find anything about your parents … or at least about the McCains. What I have found, though, for exactly the same time and the same place, is a car crash in St John’s Wood. A Volvo estate, same as you said, in collision with a white Transit van. The driver of the van was never found.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I told you – that’s how it happened. I do remember that part.’