Dead Girl Blues, page 1
Dead Girl Blues
David Sodergren
Also by David Sodergren
THE FORGOTTEN ISLAND
"This book read like a blood-drenched love letter to Lovecraft, and didn't hold back on the splatter factor. But what impressed me more was Sodergren's masterful control of dread[...]this book is handled with impressive authority and confidence."
James Fahy, author of The Changeling series
"Nothing is going to prepare you for the mayhem Sodergren throws at you once he shows his cards. A novel packed with old movie references, gore, violence, humour, wit and originality."
Gavin Kendall, Kendall Reviews
NIGHT SHOOT
"Night Shoot is wildly entertaining. If you’re not laughing, you’re scared out of your mind. A final girl story people will be talking about for a long time.”
Sadie Hartmann, Mother Horror
“Sodergren has a gift for storytelling”
Steve Stred, Author of Ritual and The Stranger
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Afterword
About the Author
Coming soon
This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to names and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author. All rights reserved.
Cover art and illustrations by Connor Leslie
Graphic design by Heather Sodergren
Copyright © 2020 David Sodergren
All rights reserved.
ISBN:9798620351732
To Dario, Mario and Sergio
Thanks for all the good times.
1
At around seven pm on a crisp October evening, Jessica Chalmers stabbed a man twice in the neck and made her escape.
She had her reasons, and now she ran.
She didn’t know where she was, or where she was going, but still she ran, using only the moonlight to guide her. They were out there, tracking her, so she avoided the mud, sticking to the grass despite roots that threatened to trip her with every step. Mud meant footprints, and footprints meant they could follow her.
She was surprised at how clearly she was able to think, under the circumstances.
Wizened branches clawed at her naked body. There had been no time to grab her clothes. Just her phone. Thank god she had her phone. Maybe, just maybe, this could all be worthwhile. She realised she still clutched the knife in her bony hand, the man’s blood wet and glistening on the serrated blade. She glanced back and saw nothing but the silhouettes of the trees.
But she knew they were following. They couldn’t let her live, not now. Not after what she’d seen.
Not after what she’d done.
And so she ran, head down, arms swinging. She needed clothes. Not out of any sense of modesty, but because her pale body would be a beacon in the shattered moonlight that slanted through the branches. Again, the clarity of her thoughts surprised her. If only she had seen things this plainly before. Days ago. Weeks, months even. Before it all began, before she got involved.
Oh hindsight, you wretched, useless bastard.
She stopped a moment and leaned against a tree, her breath coming in hitched gasps, heart hammering like an outboard motor, and then she was off again, running for her pitiful life.
She heard a noise, someone shouting. Or did she? She wasn’t going to wait and find out. Something caught her foot and she tripped and went sprawling across the grass. The phone and the knife spilled from her hands and she crawled forwards, gasping for breath, sweeping her arms in front of her in a panic. She touched the knife and grabbed it, closing her fingers around the blade, cutting herself, barely noticing.
A light behind her, in the distance. Torchlight. She had to go, now, but she couldn’t leave the phone. She felt sick, her stomach tightening as she gripped the knife, praying she wouldn’t have to use it. Not again. There had been so much blood last time.
So much blood.
A beam of light illuminated a tree twenty feet from her, sweeping through the night. Damn them. Damn them all to hell. Her fingertips scraped the cold metallic sheen of the phone and she almost yelped with joy. She seized it and hurtled through the trees, angling away from her pursuers.
That was too close.
She stole a look over her shoulder, blood pumping furiously through her veins. The torchlight was far away. She had lost them.
For now.
She had to get back to the city, back to Edinburgh.
It was her only chance.
Beyond her the forest ended and became a field that stretched to the dark horizon. She would be out in the open. Exposed. She came to the edge of the trees and knelt, looking for signs of life. The field was huge. There was no way around.
Black clouds swept across the sky like warships, obscuring the glow of the moon. As the field dipped into inky darkness, Jessica took off running again. The torchlight had vanished. Had she really lost them? Could she be that lucky? Too late, she turned and saw the man. She didn’t even have time to scream.
Time was in short supply these days.
They collided, crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Without thinking, Jessica raised the knife and brought it down into his chest, once, twice, again and again, blind panic drawing its midnight veil over her eyes.
Oh god what if it’s a farmer oh god what have I done…
She stopped, her hand shaking. The blade was covered in straw. She touched the rigid corpse and felt the wooden pole of his spine.
She had just stabbed a scarecrow to death.
Under different circumstances, it would have been funny. The rotten-turnip head leered at her as moonlight edged its way past the clouds, clumps of hay askew within the worn tweed jacket.
‘Jesus,’ she said, getting to her feet.
She paused. This spooky fucker might yet come in handy. She undid the buttons and stripped the jacket from the scarecrow, stuffing her thin arms through the sleeves. It hung over her shoulders like a sack, several sizes too big. So what? She wasn’t strutting down the catwalks of Milan, for fuck’s sake. She tried to wrestle the trousers off, inexplicably feeling bad about doing so, but they had been nailed to the post. When she stood, the baggy jacket hung down to her knees like a little girl rummaging through her father’s closet. She tucked the phone into a pocket. Ahead, beyond the rolling hills, thousands of lights twinkled dreamily, a distant galaxy, a science-fiction.
The city.
She staggered onwards with renewed vigour. For the first time in a long time, she was filled with a sense of hope.
Home.
It was far away, yes, but she could see it. A train roared past, startling her, and this time she did scream. Blurred faces stared impassively out the window, oblivious to the half-naked girl in the field, the one clutching the bloody knife. Then it was gone and the oppressive silence resumed its chokehold on the countryside, the harsh lights of the train sparkling across the field and disappearing, heading towards the city.
Towards Edinburgh.
Jessica checked her pockets, finding the comforting coldness of the phone. She was tired, her legs throbbing, the soles of her feet bleeding, and yet she kept walking, following the railway line.
Squinting into the night, she thought she could make out a dim light further down the track.
A station.
She choked back a sob and resumed her journey. If she could get on a train, she’d be safe.
She hoped.
2
Willow Zulawski lounged on her bed in a towel, sipping a gin and lemonade and gazing at her phone. From the flat above came the regular monotonous thump of footsteps, as if Frankenstein’s Monster himself had moved in. She raised the volume on her laptop to drown out the noise with the sound of Slayer.
‘You going to reply or not?’ asked Catherine Howards.
‘I will,’ said Willow, only half-listening. ‘Just thinking of what to say.’
‘Good. For a moment there, I thought we’d lost you. You’ve been staring at that thing like you’re hypnotised.’
Willow ignored her friend and long-time flatmate, lit a cigarette and re-read Mitch’s message.
Looking 4ward to 2nite x
‘What do I even say to that?’ shrugged Willow, tipping her ash out the window onto the street three storeys below. Cat — she hated the name Catherine, felt it made her sound like a granny — finished her drink and snuggled into the oversized easy-chair in the corner of Willow’s room.
‘Just say “me too” or something. I dunno, just send a damn text already. I thought you were leaving at eight?’
‘I will.’
‘Willow, it’s quarter-past eight and you’re still in a towel.’
‘I know, it’s just…I mean, who spells forward with a four? We all have predictive text now, there’s no excuse.’
Cat rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t let it bother you. He’s probably excited. It is a he tonight, yeah?’
Willow nodded grimly. ‘Why has he used a number two for tonight, but not instead of to? Who does he think he is, Prince?’
Cat refilled her glass, giving herself a double measure of gin. ‘Again, I wouldn’t let it bother you.’
Willow tapped at the keyboard and hit send. ‘There, done.’ She stood, letting the towel fall to the floor, and weaved her way across the bedroom carpet, avoiding the piles of laundry.
Cat looked up from her own phone, then over to the window. ‘You know the curtains are open, yeah?’
Willow rummaged through the contents of her underwear drawer. ‘What’s your point?’
Cat sighed. ‘Guess I don’t have one. What did you text him?’
‘I said “me too”, but I spelled “too” as the number three,’ said Willow, as she pulled on her underwear.
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Something for him to ponder. God, maybe I should’ve put a wee winking face emoji. He might think I’m an idiot.’
‘Where’d you meet this one anyway?’
Willow fished out a pair of weathered jeans and held them up for Cat, seeking approval. Cat nodded her head. ‘Perfect.’
‘Nah,’ said Willow, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’m going on a date, not to dispose of a corpse.’ She discarded the jeans, digging further into the back of her closet. ‘Plenty of Fish.’
‘Huh?’
‘You asked where I met him. Plenty of Fish.’
Cat sipped her drink. It was reassuringly strong. ‘I thought all the kids used Tinder these days.’
‘I’ve exhausted Tinder’s supply,’ said Willow, holding up a black dress. Once again, Cat nodded, trying to muster some enthusiasm for the charade.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘That’s the one.’
Willow looked unsure. ‘I dunno…I’d feel like we’re going to a funeral.’
‘Why are all your references so morbid?’
Willow had no answer.
‘You’re so lucky, though,’ said Cat. ‘Being bi, I mean. You get the best of both worlds.’
‘I seem to end up with the worst of both worlds,’ said Willow from inside the wardrobe. She wrestled a green dress free and held it aloft like a talisman. ‘How about this?’
‘Good god, Will, you need to go shopping. But I suppose it’ll have to do. Jesus, at least iron it first!’ she cried, as Willow unzipped the wrinkled garment.
‘You’re like a nagging wife.’
‘Well I know you don’t wear clothes at your work, but sometimes you have to put in a bit of effort.’
‘I wear clothes,’ grumbled Willow, her eyes darting around the room, trying to locate the iron.
‘Thongs and nipple tassels don’t count.’ Cat paused. ‘You have told him you’re a stripper, yeah?’
‘Don’t be daft. Men are easily confused. If I tell him I’m a stripper he’ll hear porn-star and expect a fuck. To be honest, women aren’t much better either, so I try to keep that little nugget of info quiet at the start, maybe tell them on the second or third date.’
‘You ever been on a third date?’
‘Once,’ said Willow, watching as Cat laughed. She turned to her friend. ‘I fucking hate this. Why do we put ourselves through this humiliation?’
‘Shut up and iron your dress. I’m sick of looking at your perfect wee arse.’
‘I can’t find the iron. Or the board.’ She looked at Cat. ‘And you’re drunk, you lush.’
Cat giggled. Willow made an executive decision and abandoned the ironing. If Mitch — that was his name, right? — was more concerned with a few creases in her dress, then something had gone very, very wrong. She wasn’t holding out any hope. She never had much luck with either sex, and sometimes wondered who’s fault that really was. She knew people — men in particular — found her intimidating. Tall, beautiful and unafraid to speak her mind. Strong, too, thanks to her ability to work the pole at her job. Her last date, with some wanker named Chris, had ended with a disastrous arm-wrestling match, causing Chris to flip out and upend their table before storming off.
She hadn’t been back to that particular bar.
‘Willow, stop staring at me like a creep.’
Willow laughed, not realising she had been. ‘Sorry, just thinking.’
‘Well think and get dressed. I’m almost out of gin.’
‘That’s not like you.’
Outside, a police car raced by, the siren wailing deep into the night as the first drops of rain fell. Willow crossed the room and stubbed out her cigarette, pausing the music halfway through Angel of Death. She listened to the water spattering her window, gradually building in intensity.
‘Willow, that guy’s staring at you,’ said Cat, her voice sharp with agitation.
‘Who?’
‘The weirdo in flat three.’
Willow peered through the drips that scurried down the glass. He was there all right, binoculars in hand. Her own personal voyeur. He watched, making no effort to hide, his upper body framed by the window.
‘I bet he’s naked from the waist down,’ said Willow.
‘God, probably. He’s disgusting.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s holding the binoculars with both hands.’
‘What do you…oh Will, that’s horrible. You shouldn’t joke about it. We should call the police.’
‘Ah, he’s a harmless old perv. I just wish I could figure out how to charge him.’ She turned to Cat and smiled. ‘You’re the only person I give a free show to.’
Cat nodded and stared into her drink. ‘A show I never asked for, nor wanted.’
‘People pay good money to see me strip. You should count yourself lucky.’
‘Put some clothes on,’ snapped Cat.
Willow smiled. ‘Hey…shall I give him something to stare at?’
Cat raised an admonishing finger. ‘Willow, don’t. Don’t encourage him. I swear to god, keep your knickers on.’
Willow winked at Cat and hooked a finger in the waistband of her underpants. She slowly lowered them, knowing the reaction it would get. She saw it every night at work, could read it in the faces of the men who watched her.
‘Willow, I’m serious, stop it! He could be a stalker or something,’ cried Cat, getting out of the chair and storming over to the window, grabbing the curtains and yanking them shut.
Willow pouted at her, then broke into a goofy grin.
‘It’s not funny,’ said Cat. ‘There’re all sorts of sickos out there. Now stop smiling and get dressed. Honestly, you’re a fucking nightmare sometimes.’
3
Jessica crouched by the side of the railway line. Ahead of her sat the lonely station, one of those ridiculous rural ones in the arse-end of nowhere, just a brick shelter and a bench. A solitary crisp wrapper fluttering in the chilly autumn breeze was the only movement.
