Face of Evil by George Morris De'Ath

Author:George Morris De'Ath [De'Ath, George Morris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781800245846
Publisher: Head of Zeus

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The bed in Lydia’s room is vast and soft, and sinks invitingly when she falls onto it, but her brain is far too busy for sleep. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours and she feels like the pieces of the puzzle are so close to fitting together if she can only organise her thoughts. She heaves herself up and fetches her suitcase from where the officers have left it near the door, lifting it up and onto the bed and zipping it open. Sitting right there on top of a messy wad of clothes and shoes is her laptop. She carries it to a table by the window, sits down, and opens it up.

I should start writing, or Donna will be on my back again. Lydia’s own words come drifting back to her, and she pops open her word processor. Maybe if she orders events on the page, the links will become clearer. She rests her fingers on the keys and begins to type, remembering her arrival at Mortem that first night in as much detail as she can, her impression of the building as a living, breathing organism with a malevolent spirit, the people inside of it; Charlotte, the receptionist and Gretchen, both women drained of their youth and vitality by a force more potent than age or exhaustion. It was that place. As if it was feeding on them.

Lydia’s fingers skim the keys rapidly, the soft clicking soothing her like raindrops on a windowsill. She renders the events, the descriptions, the feelings as vividly as she can, but tiredness is pressing on her mind and she begins to slow, to struggle. I need coffee. And food. She glances towards the phone. Room service? No, they won’t have what she’s craving. Then her eyes slide to the door. We’ll be right outside if you need anything. A slow smile creeps across Lydia’s face. May as well make the best of this.

An hour later, Lydia crumples the greasy, empty wrapper of a double cheeseburger and tosses it into the trash before picking up a massive cup of coffee and taking a big gulp. That’s better. Junk food has healing properties. She sets the coffee down and turns her attention back to the screen.

Her tale has stalled on the second day, because every time she tries to recall her meeting with Dorothy Eagle, she relives the horror of seeing her mutilated corpse. Only in Lydia’s mind, the severed bird’s head turns to stare at her, its eyes accusing, its mouth screaming a silent curse. Was it her fault? If she had never come here, never met with the teacher, would Dorothy still be alive? Would Cecil Sprinkler be at home right now, making himself tea and toast in his musty kitchen or polishing those green apples for the hundredth time? Is she the catalyst for what’s happening? What is happening?

In search of distraction, she checks her phone. Nothing. Should she try calling again? If Alex gets out of Mortem and sees a dozen missed calls, he might think something’s wrong.

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