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  Harry walked down the hallway, following the bloody footprints. In the bathroom, most of the floor and the marble counter and basin were covered in dry blood. The window was closed and the smell was overpowering. Harry held his shirt over his nose. Again, the mirror had been completely removed from its frame.

  He looked over at the bath, got up on his tiptoes so he wouldn’t have to actually enter the room. There was more blood in the bathtub, and some broken mirror. Not a lot. Harry didn’t even want to think about that. He stepped back from the threshold, and immediately felt a little better. Whatever it was about this house – maybe it was just his imagination – was stronger in that room. The death room. Harry shivered.

  He walked further up the hallway. The master bedroom. More blood, but here the stench was masked by the overpowering scent of perfume. The mirror on the dresser had been removed and, once again, there was not a scrap of glass anywhere. Harry entered the room, examined the dresser, pulled out the drawers and rummaged through them, not really sure what he was searching for. On one of the bedside tables there was a wallet and keys. Harry opened the wallet, flicked through the cards. Pulled out a faded picture of Zak Godwin and his wife, cradling their baby girl. Harry was about to put the wallet back when he noticed a slit in the leather, on the inside. He pressed the sides so it opened. A business card. Harry pulled it out. Black and shiny, with pink writing: Hunted – Gentlemen’s Club. On the other side, someone had scrawled a phone number. He flipped the card over in his hands, drew it to his nose. Perfumed. Different to the perfume that had soaked into the carpet under the dressing table. Harry thought of Mr Godwin, lying in the bath, eating shards of glass until he died. He pocketed the card, and put the wallet back.

  Harry continued down the hall and found the girl’s room. More blood in here, but not as much as the other rooms. He looked around, wondering why Godwin was in here at all. Then he remembered the photos Phil had shown him. Half under the girl’s bed was a small hand mirror. The forensics team must have also found it, as there was more fingerprint dust in here, but they’d left it there, smashed and bent out of shape. Like all the other mirrors in the house, every shard gone. Harry had a vision of Godwin sitting on the edge of the bed, bloody hands full of glass, crying. Tears dropping into his cupped hands to mix with the blood and the glass.

  Harry’s stomach tightened. His mouth filled with saliva. He backed out of the room, misjudging the doorway. His shoulder clipped it and pins and needles exploded down his arm. He spun in the hall and saw the toilet door open, but the room was coated in fingerprint dust. He gagged.

  Harry ran back down the hallway, through the open-plan living area, past Phil, who was still goggling at his phone. He heaved again and tasted acid in his mouth.

  The front door was open. He tripped over the doorway, then slipped on the welcome mat. He made it to the garden bed, vomiting at the base of a neat row of rose bushes. Bile rose again, but this time nothing came out. He stared at the mulch through watering eyes.

  ‘You right?’

  Harry snorted a thick laugh. ‘Does it look like it?’

  Phil handed him a handkerchief.

  ‘Thanks.’ He wiped his mouth, blew his nose.

  ‘You can keep that, by the way,’ Phil said.

  Harry looked at him, caught the smirk on his face.

  ‘Don’t worry. I was the same, the first time. And it doesn’t matter if there’s no body here – it’s clear that something bad went down. I almost think that sometimes, when something like that happens, it leaves a, I don’t know, a kind of residue.’

  Harry nodded, remembering the sensation in the bathroom – the death room. He looked past Phil’s legs, to the mat. It was askew. He looked away, then back at the mat. There was something underneath it. A piece of paper, folded into a small rectangle. He hefted himself up. The paper was crinkled and stuck to the concrete. It had been there a while.

  ‘What is it?’ Phil said.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Harry gently prised it off the ground. There was writing on it. He started unfolding it, carefully freeing the stuck edges.

  ‘We can get forensics to do that, Harry,’ Phil said, reaching for the paper.

  Harry turned away from him. ‘Bullshit. You wanted me here. I found it.’

  ‘Only because you tripped over the mat.’

  ‘Well, maybe your crime scene guys should’ve tripped over the mat. Or maybe looked under it? Jesus Christ.’

  Harry gently unfolded the paper. Symbols. But not like those on his neck. These were more familiar. Well, culturally familiar. A pentagram. And at the corners of the pentagram, sigils, and another in the middle of the design. But it was faded, much of it barely legible in places. He held it to the light.

  ‘Harry, I really think I should get forensics to look at that.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Harry pulled out his phone. He laid the paper on the ground and took a series of photos, then handed it to Phil, who pulled a plastic bag out of his back pocket and put the piece of paper inside. Then he looked over Harry’s shoulder at the image on his phone’s screen.

  ‘Do you think it’s important?’

  ‘Could be. Or maybe the victim’s kid’s just been watching too much Supernatural.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Harry parked his car and peered at the darkening sky. It had been a dry winter but maybe it might finally rain. He grabbed his umbrella and got out of the car, striding along the footpath past a row of run-down houses, some dark, some with the flickering glow of television pulsing through the front windows. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. His best mate Dave would probably be late anyway. He’d never been the most punctual of people – always figuring that everyone else was as laid-back as he was – but things had gotten worse now that he was heading into the final stages of his medical degree.

  Thunder rolled ominously through the air. Thick dark splotches landed on the pavement, and Harry opened the umbrella. The week had passed in a blur. After visiting the crime scene on Monday, he’d emailed the psychic, Sandy, a copy of the image. She had so much arcane knowledge in that head of hers, it wouldn’t surprise him if she knew what the mysterious symbols meant, but he hadn’t heard back from her yet. Harry hadn’t had much to do with Sandy since she had been dragged reluctantly into his crisis last year. For a while afterwards they’d kept in touch via email. But then the emails drifted further and further apart, the responses shorter and shorter. She’d told him last that she was thinking about getting into consulting again, that the Rob situation had made her a beacon once more in the spirit world, and that she may as well do something about it, given she was getting hassled anyway.

  West End was bustling. A blend of long-time locals tending their stores, suited-and-booted business types winding down after a busy week, and the rough sleepers attracted by the area’s more tolerant attitude. A posh Greek restaurant with starched white tablecloths and sparkling wine glasses sat across the road from a dingy pub that hadn’t been refurbished since the 1990s.

  Harry opened the umbrella as the rain started coming down in earnest. A woman in a bright yellow dress jumped a puddle with more grace than her stilettos should have allowed. He thought of Bec. Their coffee date had been less than a week ago, but it seemed like longer. It seemed like a dream. He’d wanted to call her, but didn’t want to come on too strong. Part of him still couldn’t believe she wanted to have another go.

  Archive Beer Boutique was filling up. Harry pushed through the press of hipsters supping their craft beers and lounging in a mish-mash of chairs that looked as though they’d been salvaged from op shops. Harry wondered that Dave could handle this place, given how lo-fi trendy it was. But then again, Dave did like his beer. Harry searched for his best friend, walking past a wall papered with old comics to the bar. He assessed the beers chalked on the board and chose a chocolate stout.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Harry Hendrick.’

  Dave. And for once not in his hospital greens – ev
ery time Harry had seen him in recent months he’d been in his nurse’s uniform, stinking of antiseptic, usually hunched over a stack of books.

  ‘Dave!’

  Dave had never really been comfortable with the hug, whereas Harry figured after all they’d been through, the pair of them were definitely in hug territory. So they ended up doing an awkward half-hug, half-handshake, before Dave ordered his beer.

  They found a couple of bar stools looking out over Hardgrave Road.

  ‘Cheers, big ears,’ Dave said.

  They clinked glasses and drank, both just enjoying the beer for a few moments.

  ‘Long time, no see,’ Harry said. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Getting there. Just got the big exam coming up in a couple of months. And then jostling for intern placements.’

  ‘So soon it will be Dr Dave.’ Harry grinned. He’d seen his best friend slugging it out for years. It was amazing to think he was almost there.

  ‘Hopefully.’ He took a big gulp of beer. ‘What about you? How’s work?’

  ‘Ah, getting there. A few things going on.’ Harry felt exhausted just thinking about it.

  ‘Come on, man, details, details. I’ve been living like a fucking hermit. Give me something!’

  ‘Okay.’ Harry told Dave about Phil and the mystery suicides, careful to play down the fact that he was being coerced into it.

  Dave drained half his glass. ‘Well, you know, if I was in one of those CSI shows . . .’

  Harry could almost imagine it. CSI: Dave.

  ‘… if I was in one of those shows, I’d be looking for connections between the victims.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m on it. The most obvious is the markings. Five lines on the back. Like the points of an inverted star.’

  ‘Satanists?’

  Harry nodded. ‘But it could also depict a pentagon. Could mean anything. Could mean nothing.’

  ‘But the police think it’s something… something weird.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And they’ve contacted you because…’

  Harry sipped his beer, then looked around the room to give himself a bit of time to answer the question. Dave would do anything to help him. But he’d also nag Harry to death if he thought he was being made to do something he didn’t want to.

  ‘To be honest, I think they’re just desperate…’

  Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘They must be. Next thing they’ll be calling in a psychic.’ Dave laughed, and Harry joined him. It had been too long.

  ‘Thing is,’ Harry said, ‘There may be nothing… supernatural about it. Could just be someone has fucked with all these people. Tortured them or something. Threatened their families. Who knows?’

  ‘Do you really want this shit right now?’

  ‘It could be a big story. And Jesus, I need another big story.’

  ‘Fame sucks?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just… I dunno. I guess there are people who think I fluked it with Cardinal. And, to be honest, I did have a bit of help there.’

  ‘Bullshit, Harry. Come on. Believe in yourself. If anyone else’d had that shit happen to them, they’d’ve ended up in a mental asylum. Seriously.’

  ‘Thanks, man.’

  Dave smiled. ‘Don’t thank me, just buy me another beer. I’m dying of thirst here!’

  Harry laughed again, and reached for his wallet.

  CHAPTER 8

  Harry thought the knocking was in his head, then realised someone was at the front door. He sat up, winced, then slumped back against the bed, head swimming and sweat chilling his body. Maybe it was JWs, or someone who wanted to paint the house. He closed his eyes, willing them away.

  ‘Harry? Harry?’

  Ah shit.

  Harry couldn’t quite place the voice. He should have been able to, but he couldn’t. Because the banging was in his head after all, pulsing in sickly synchronicity with the knocking on the door. He pushed himself off the bed. Got his feet on the floor. Tried to ignore the sensation of the world trying to spin out from under his feet.

  Harry shuffled through the house, wishing he had his sunglasses but not having the mental capacity to remember where they were. He opened the door, squinting to try to block the sunlight, squinting so much his eyes were basically closed. Through the gap he saw a small shape, a big broad-brimmed hat, the smell of lavender. And then he felt Sandy’s warm hands on his skin.

  ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’ Sandy didn’t wait for an answer, she just pushed past him. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll put the kettle on. We’ll get you back in the fight, Harry Hendrick.’

  Harry pivoted slowly, battling the urge to gag. ‘Fight? What fight?’

  But Sandy was already in the kitchen, rummaging through his cupboards, making such a racket he wasn’t sure the effort was worth it. He slumped down at the dining room table, sipping on the glass of water he didn’t remember pouring for himself the night before. Never again. Never again.

  He couldn’t believe he’d drunk that much. Bloody Dave. After what had happened with Rob, Harry’d been extremely careful about drinking. Part of it was that he loathed the feeling of not being in control of himself. And part of it was just that he was more committed to looking after his body.

  Sandy hummed to herself. Harry was pretty sure it was a Céline Dion tune.

  ‘Kill me now,’ Harry groaned.

  ‘What’s that, dear?’ Sandy said.

  ‘White. Two sugars, please.’

  Sandy returned with two mugs of steaming tea. She set one in front of Harry. He watched the bubbles swirling on the surface, and for a moment thought he was going to be sick. Then he looked at the walls, let out a deep breath, and looked at Sandy.

  ‘Thanks, Sandy. I’m a bit… a bit under the weather,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. You look a bit… under the weather. But you’re well otherwise.’ A statement. Not a question.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’ And he immediately thought of Bec.

  ‘She’s a good one,’ Sandy said, smiling. ‘You both lost your way for a little bit. But I think you two are going to be okay.’

  Harry felt the floor drop away under his feet, and struggled again to keep his stomach under control. He hadn’t told Sandy anything about Bec. He hadn’t even told Dave – although, come to think of it, he could have told Dave anything last night. He’d decided he wanted to keep it to himself for now. He was worried about being judged. He supposed Sandy could have asked around. Maybe Bec wasn’t playing her cards so close to her chest. But no, he didn’t think that was what had happened. Harry struggled to keep a straight face.

  ‘Rob’s still watching over you,’ Sandy said. ‘He keeps me up to date on your comings and goings.’

  Harry self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Oh great. Thanks, Rob. So, what did you manage to dig up about the symbols?’

  Sandy’s smile faded slightly. She reached for her bag and fumbled around while Harry sipped his tea. It was good. She pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it and flattened it on the table. It was a printout of the photo Harry had sent her, of the note he’d found under public servant Zak Godwin’s front doormat.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Harry said. ‘It’s not some random scribbling.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Harry’s hands shook so badly he had to use both of them to pick up the cup. Sandy looked up from the piece of paper, peering over the top of her reading glasses.

  ‘You right?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘There’s the pentacle. A pentagram in a circle. That’s a given, okay? It’s inverted. That’s a Satanic thing. Again, not necessarily any biggie.’

  Harry raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well, you know. Kids. Mucking around with the occult. Most of the time they don’t know what they’re messing around with. Most of the time anything they think they conjure is just a figment of their imagination.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Harry recalled a seance he’d been to as a kid. Someone had brought one of those creepy
china dolls and positioned it outside the door, so that the first person who fled the room would find it staring at them.

  ‘But, inverted pentagram is inverted pentagram. Signifying the triumph of matter over spirit. There’s a mixture of stuff from different cultures. This one here is from the Romani people…’

  ‘Gypsies?’

  Sandy gave him a disapproving look. ‘No, Romani. And this one… you might recognise this one.’

  Harry peered at the symbol, and reached instinctively for the tattoo on his neck. ‘Yep, that’s from Afghanistan.’

  She spun the piece of paper to face him. ‘But then it fades. I can’t read the rest of it. If there’s anything to read.’ She sighed. ‘You look at this and you would think it was some crock of shit cooked up by schoolgirls. To scare a mate, or maybe to scare themselves. Or maybe a horny kid hoping to get some randy MILF into bed.’

  Harry raised his eyebrows again.

  ‘Don’t bother, Harry. Come on, I watch TV. I’ve got the internet.’

  ‘Okay, so it’s bullshit?’ Harry said. The pounding was returning to his temples.

  ‘No, of course it’s not. That’s what scares me, Harry. It’s not, because it compelled this poor man to kill himself by eating shards of mirror.’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘And the marks on his back,’ Sandy said.

  The hairs on Harry’s arm stood on end. He hadn’t told her about the marks on the victims’ backs. He’d wanted her to concentrate on the inscription without any distraction.

  She stared at the wall, but she wasn’t seeing the wall – she was seeing whatever it was that she saw when she went to that place. The place that made her special.

  ‘How many victims are there, Harry?’

  ‘Four. That we know of.’

  ‘There’s going to be more. At least six.’

  ‘Why six?’

  ‘One for each point of the star. One for the middle. Also, six is a significant number. In the Bible, six represents human weakness, and the manifestation of sin.’

  ‘I was wondering if it was some sort of blackmail thing,’ Harry said. ‘And I can almost see that with the guy who threw himself in front of the train, and the cop who blew his head off, and the guy who gassed himself in the car. But eating glass? Eating pieces of mirror until he died? Jesus.