Flesh House

A disintegrating sign was fixed to the wall by the front door,'THE LAURELS' picked out in fading black paint on scabby grey wood. Logan's torch drifted across the wet sandstone and through the remains of a bay window: crumbling plaster and tattered wallpaper, a mantelpiece littered with bits of collapsed ceiling. The door was locked, and this time giving it a shove wasn't enough. An old bench sat engulfed in a clump of dead brambles, but when Logan tried to drag it under the bay window it fell to pieces. 'Damn ...' He looked up at the hollow window frame, then back at the cameraman shivering on the top step. 'Want to give me a leg up?' Inside, the lounge stank of damp and mould, the floor sagging alarmingly as Logan landed on the squelchy carpet. Alec's head peeked over the windowsill. 'It safe in there?' 'I'll let you in the front door.' He picked his way around the edge of the room, out into the hall, and up to the front door. A big rusty key stuck out of the lock, jammed nearly solid. Logan worked it backward and forward till the seized-up mechanism gave with a squeal, then dragged the door open. Alec peered inside. 'Doesn't look promising, does it?' 'We'll start upstairs.'

Heather sat cross legged on the mattress, the plate of liver and onions going cold in her lap. Not that it wasn't good - everything He cooked for her was good - it was just that she didn't know what was real anymore. He was on the other side of the bars, sitting with His back to the rusty red metal wall, His face an expressionless rubber mask. She took her knife and fork and cut another slice of liver - caramelized on the outside, delicate pink on the inside - put it in her mouth and chewed. Moist and rich and tender. Heather had never eaten policewoman before. 'Are you ...' She tried to remember the name of Kelley's brother. 'Jimmy?' The Flesher tilted His head to the side - that cat-like gesture He always did, questioning. 'Is she OK? Kelley? Is she ...' She bit her bottom lip, not wanting to say it: is she dead? He placed a hand over His heart. Then pointed at her plate of food. 'Yes, it's lovely.' She took another slice, heaping it with mashed potato and fried onions. 'Can I speak to her?' Silence. 'She's my friend.' A nod. 'Please don't hurt her.' The Flesher reached up, took hold of the rubber mask, and pulled ... then froze, the mask half on and half off. There was a noise filtering down from somewhere, like electronic music being played far away. He slid the mask back down over His face and stood, then pulled a long butcher's knife from His apron. It looked exactly the same as the one Heather had been hiding. Only this time she knew it was real.

'Hold on a minute ...' Logan stopped at the top of the basement stairs, pulled out his warbling phone and pressed the green button. 'Hello?' Rennie, sounding excited:'I did it! I rule! And rock! Rock and rule!' 'Have you been drinking?'