Page 99 of Drift

Ray turned his head to the hallway.

Whatwasthat?

Jacket potatoes left too long on the stove? Huh? Who cooked jacket potatoesona stove?

Dropping his boxers, he headed downstairs. “Shell?”

Craig Stickland’s “Starlit Afternoon” soothed the quiet of the hall as he reached it, and Ray offered his Echo device a distracted smile as he headed into the kitchen. He’d spent hours thumbing through music to play for Shelley at their wedding, and this… this one had nailed every moment of them first meeting on a beach in France. She’d more than stolen his head as she danced by the campfire with her uni friends.

Humming it softly to himself, he frowned at the light trace of smoke coming from the stove.

“Shit….” Grabbing a tea-towel, he pulled the boiled-dry spuds off the ring and ran some cold water into the pan, the hiss adding a breath of steam to the kitchen window. He managed to save the vegetables, but the pie would definitely be getting some packet mash served with it tonight.

“You that knackered, love?” He checked the pie to make sure it was still living and thanked the Norse gods again for small mercies, especially as the fire alarms hadn’t been triggered. He could just imagine the piss-takes there off Jack and Jan. “Shell?”

A glance back over his shoulder to the hall saw only darkness and shadow.

Odd, he could have sworn the hall light had been on when he’d come down. Yet as he stared, even the shadows in there seemed to thicken and start to creep like vine into the kitchen.

Buzzing came from close by, and Ray looked away, trying to pinpoint where… from what.

Body thick, full, the fly sat on an orange neatly stacked in a fruit bowl with the others, and Ray moved, waving the bastard off. He may not have liked thegood for youin life, but Shelley did, and no way was he letting the fly take a bite of that.

He took out some fly spray from underneath the sink and let rip.

It hit the floor, legs kicking wildly, and Ray found it a home in the bin.

Back on the table, though, an orange rolled off the fruit bowl, only stopping when it hit a mug of cold tea, jolting Ray as he glanced at it.

Frowning, Ray went over. Feeling damn stupid standing there, he gave it a poke, not understanding why it had been disturbed.

Green mould rolled into view as it toppled over.

Ughh. “Fruit’s out of date, love.” He poked it again, then checked a few more over, and—yep. “They’re all gone. You keep the receipt? I think you’re gonna need it.” He binned the lot in the bowl, then went to grab the one left on the table.

Thick bodied… bloated, a white maggot with a splash of red wriggled free of a split in the green mould. Movement was sluggish, deliriously content, almost as if it was too fat to do anything elsebutroll towards the candid fruit tray, the trace of red coating the glaze—and everything in that sweet tray suddenly came into such sharp focus.

Strands of long brown hair mixed with the red streaking the glaze, dragging a crazy mosaic through the red, one the fat maggot looked intent to maul its way over.

“Shell?” He barely recognised his own voice, because he knew those long dark strands, had ran his hands through them to catch a stray touch of pastry, and pastry still stuck to the strand now and—

“Shell… you…” His heart caught in his mouth. “You still here with me, baby?”

“Starlit Afternoon” started up again, and it locked him in the kitchen, away from the warmth of the beach in France, from those first moment Shelley had smiled his way, right to the last moment of her kiss to his cheek in the hall, erasing all memory until all he saw was strands of hair, dragging a red mosaic path over candid fruit.

As if catching a scent of a better prize, the maggot changed direction, heading for the edge of the table.

A strangled gurgle escaped Ray’s throat.

On the corner edge, chunks of skull mixed with hair and blood, and for a moment, all Ray could do was watch the drip, drip-drip of blood onto the floor. Larger bloodied trails dragged across the kitchen, heading for the back door, and Ray looked back at the fruit, to the piss-take of the maggot, almost helpless in its blindness, in its aggression to never stop, to just react… just eat, always hunting out food at night when Ed had shut the kitchen down, tripping the alarms to dig into Ray, always to eat—to gnaw through everything: bruised skin, blood, skull, and now—

“Shelley?” Ray cried it out, not stopping until it hurt, screwing his eyes shut to the backdoor, how life had been dragged out through it, how when it came to blood, bruises, and broken bones, it only ever led back to one twisted and mindless maggot who shifted shape.

“Me, not her.” He grabbed his firearm. “You hurt me. Never. Fucking.Her,Jack.”

Chapter 30

BLOOD TRAIL

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