Moker took out a large cotton cloth, perhaps just an oversized handkerchief, and stuffed it up the woman’s blouse, laying it over the wound to staunch what little blood spread around the flat base of the knitting needle. Then he buttoned the jacket tight over her breasts, the cloth held against the wound, and I cringed when I saw that his bulging eyes burned with some fervour.
Even though I was there to witness what happened next, I still could not believe it.
Moker sat back in the rear passenger seat and closed his eyes, the dead body slumped against the car’s opposite corner. I waited, mystified, caught up in what was taking place. Was this an extra way of getting his kicks, sitting with the person he’d just killed, enjoying the corpse’s company as it grew colder? That he was a deviant of the lowest kind, there was no doubt, but this loitering with the victim beat all common sense. Certainly there wasn’t much danger of being caught in the car park – anyone who did come along would be unable to see into the back of the car because of this level’s inadequate lighting – but why take the risk anyway? And if he was going to cut the body up, he’d hardly do it in his own vehicle. Even with the blood beginning to congeal there would still be a terrible mess. I didn’t understand and could only watch him as his breathing became deeper, the sound it made more disturbing. Soon he was sleeping and the rough-knitted muffler he’d rewrapped around his face billowed slightly with every escaping breath.
And then it occurred. At first I thought I might be imagining it, but the more intensely I gazed at Moker, the more certain I became that his image was wavering.
Something was leaving him.
I admit it, I was even more frightened than before and, because of it, I hunkered down almost into the footwell under the windscreen. I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have had – any physical discomforts in my condition, but I became cold. Very, very cold. And although I was hunched down, I could still see over the top of the front passenger seat, could still see some peculiar kind of transformation in Moker. I cowered down further, lest he discover me somehow, and watched as his head and shoulders became blurred, as though something thin and vapoury was smothering them, while a kind of nebulous mist – no, no, a kind of weak ectoplasm – was emerging from him so his image was indistinct behind it. And as this diaphanous cloud rose into the air, I saw that it was now taking on some sort of form. And the form was of Moker himself, but without the scarf and hat, without the grimy raincoat he always seemed to wear, without any clothes at all.
Although the image was unclear and ever-forming, I could make out the pits and scars to his body (I wondered if the old wounds had been self-inflicted), the malformed bones and surprising plumpness of his chest, and I wondered how a person could exist with such afflictions and could come to terms with such hideous defects. The substance was rising upwards, breaking free of the man himself, rising like a ghost from the grave, and Moker’s body was sliding sideways as if its lifeforce was deserting it. Finally, Moker’s empty body slumped against the rear seat’s corner. As Moker’s real eyes were closed, so too were the eyes of his fluctuating self-image, but I remained hidden all the same.
The substance – ectoplasm, animus, essence, I didn’t know what to call it – continued to build until I thought it might disappear through the roof of the car, but as the bare head – it had traces of wispy hair – touched the ceiling, the whole thing began to float sideways, towards the corpse in the other corner. This emanation was both fascinating and horrible, unusual and frightening, even though I’d left my own body many times in similar fashion in my past life (although I was sure that my spirit had never been visible like this, otherwise somebody would have mentioned it!). The ghosts at the séance parlour hadn’t scared me as much, because there was nothing threatening about them. This was different, there was something malign about the phenomenon I was witnessing, and I felt non-existent hairs on the back of my neck prickle, goosebumps rise on my arms. If I hadn’t been dead, I’d have run for my life.
This is when it happened. This is when I saw something I never thought possible. Of course I’d read the books and watched the films about demonic possession, but only hokey or over-imaginative writers and film-makers were responsible for such scenarios, while this was a real man, albeit an abnormal one, whose soul was stealing another person’s body. Death had emptied the woman’s body of its soul and now a different soul was taking its place, filling the vacuum. As I watched, the vaporous issue from Moker was entering the corpse on the back seat, creeping into it, smoothly but bit by bit, nothing hurried, no sudden possession, just a steady ingress, the hazy but discernible ‘mist’ gradually sinking into the body until the nebulous features of Moker had completely disappeared.
After a few moments – but very long moments – the corpse’s eyes snapped open wide and looked into mine.
30
When the corpse spoke, its voice was strange, forced as if remembering the process. It was female, but there was an underlying hoarseness to the tone.
‘I . . . know . . . you,’ she said.
I jerked back so fiercely that I went through the dashboard and landed in a heap beneath the car’s engine. Stunned, I remained there for a few beats, at least out of sight of the Hillman’s two back-seat occupants; then, rather than stand and be in view again, I rolled out and crawled around the Celica that was parked next to Moker’s car, keeping low, afraid of being noticed, coming to rest behind the Celica’s furthest front tyre.
How was it possible for this woman to see me? Wait – the spirits at the séance had. In fact, most had been frightened of me. But . . . but . . . this woman’s eyes had fully opened and had looked right at me. Did it mean she wasn’t really dead? But that long, sharpened knitting needle straight through the heart – who could survive that? But then Moker’s spirit had left him and entered his victim’s body, so did that now mean he was dead? Think, I urged myself, think it through. Hadn’t I once had the power to leave my own body without being dead? I was almost an expert of the out-of-body experience, but had this man Moker developed his own ability to a level where he could use a body once its true tenant had left?
I peered over the Celica’s bonnet, squinting to see into the shadows of the Hillman. It was very dark, but there was movement in there. I kept low, nervous of being caught again. I heard rather than saw the rear door open and I ducked down out of sight. Cautiously I raised my head again, moving along the Celica’s bodywork so that I could watch through its windows without too much exposure.
The woman was standing by the Hillman’s open door. I could only see from the chin down to her waist, but I could tell she was unsteady. She raised a hand to lean on the grey metal roof, the other hand gripping the door handle. Her chest was heaving as if breathing was a strain. Was it Moker forcing the lungs to inhale? Was he inside the woman, forcing the dead body to function again? Unbelievable though it was, I suddenly had no doubts. After all, everything I had gone through recently was incredible, so what was so hard about this? The woman’s spirit had vacated her dead body and Moker’s own spirit had moved in to fill the vacuum, had taken possession. I was witness to it.
I kept out of sight, moving away from the Celica to get behind a concrete pillar, only standing up when the pillar was between the two vehicles and me. I risked a quick look.
The resurrected woman slowly and awkwardly turned her whole body to look around the car park. I flinched back out of sight once more, wondering if she was searching for me. Waiting for perhaps half a minute, I carefully peeked around the pillar again. She was moving her arms, trying to flex her stubborn fingers, only succeeding in straightening and clawing them stiffly. She began to walk, quite unstably to begin with, a hand brushing along the Hillman’s roof for support, but her stride becoming just a little more adept with each step. I moved around the concealing pillar to keep out of sight, but still I peered around its corner.
Her right hand was now on the Hillman’s bonnet, and her footsteps were still somewhat awkward, but I couldn’t b
e sure if that was because of her zombie-like state, or because of the high-heeled shoes she was wearing. Her confidence seemed to grow though with each further step, and soon she had left the security of the old car and was walking along unaided, the shoes dragging along the concrete floor rather than clattering as they had when the woman was alive. At one point, her left knee gave out and she went down, her hands slapping against the ground and saving herself from falling all the way. She knelt there on one knee, her shoulders sinking and rising as though she were catching her breath, the knuckles of her hands pressed firmly against the concrete. She stayed that way for one, two minutes? – I couldn’t be sure – then forced herself to rise again. That is, Moker forced her to rise again.
It was a graceless effort, like Bambi finding his feet for the first time, but with considerable effort she made it. The woman – this zombie of a woman – stood in the emptiness of the darkened car park regaining her breath, seemingly gathering more strength.
I began to understand that when the body dies, not everything fails at once; it takes a little while if only seconds for organs to cease functioning, and longer for muscles and tissues to atrophy, so was it possible for an alien entity to take over and make them work again? Probably, like me a week or so ago, you’d think no way; yet here I was witness to the miracle(?). It seemed possession was not confined to devils and demons. I understood now that when Jesus Christ had brought Lazarus back to life, He’d actually recalled Lazarus’ soul, ordering it to return to its host. Who would have thought that the host body could also be appropriated by someone else’s soul?
Before continuing, the dead woman looked about her once more as if looking for something. I had no doubt that ‘something’ was me, so I remained hidden, frightened, incredulous – but inquisitive. She appeared to give up her search, although I’m sure she wasn’t satisfied. She started moving again, the first few steps clumsy, ungainly, and also slow (although not as slow as those zombies in old and hackneyed horror flicks), heading towards the EXIT door that Moker had been watching for a couple of hours that night.
What the hell was she – he – doing? Wasn’t mutilation the next item on the killer’s agenda? According to the newspapers, that was the whole agenda. It was then I wondered if Moker, using the OBE, had entered all his dead victims this way. And if so, what was the point, what kind of kick did Moker get from it? I decided to follow. Oh, believe me, I didn’t want to, I wanted to flee, get somewhere sane – like my own home. But the truth is, by now I was really curious.
I waited for the door to swing closed before leaving my hiding place – I don’t know why I was quite so wary of being seen; after all, wasn’t I untouchable? What could Moker do to me? – and went to the yellow-painted door. I listened before passing through it and heard shuffling footsteps ascending the stone steps that led to ground level. When they had faded enough for me to feel confident, I pressed through – no, I didn’t even have to press this time – I just glided through the door.
The footsteps could be heard clearly now, although they were growing quieter, fading into the distance. Cautiously, very cautiously, I mounted the first few steps, then listened again. The foot-shuffle was barely audible, so I climbed further, looking upwards over the iron rail as I went. Occasionally, I’d see the woman’s hand grab at the rail as if to pull herself along, not all of the fingers coordinated, two of them poking out, straight and stiff, and I deliberately kept back, making sure there was at least one landing between us. At last I heard a door swing open at the top. She, he – I still had to get used to the idea that it was Moker I was following, not this poor woman – had stepped out into Queensway, a street that was always busy, with shops open day and night.
What game was Moker playing? I couldn’t understand his motive. Had he done this with all his victims? Had the killer taken over each victim after death had occurred? Why had he appropriated their bodies? When I’d eavesdropped on the two detectives’ conversation outside my house, I’d heard them say that all the previous victims of the serial killer had acted in some bizarre ways around the time of their death: was I about to find out why and how? I shuddered. Just how deranged was this man? What was his purpose? To ridicule his victims? Was his mind so warped by his own deformity that he wanted to destroy the reputation of these innocent people, not content merely to destroy their bodies? Or was it simply for sexual self-gratification, committing acts that he could not do as himself (whether it was because of his facial deformity, or because something else was physically wrong with him I had no idea).
Skimming up to the top floor, my mind reeling with concerns and questions, I paused at the door to the street – just to try and bring my thoughts under control – before passing through.
There was plenty of light in Queensway, from shops, overhead lamps and slow-moving traffic, and plenty of people too. I didn’t know the time.13 As always it was what you might call a ‘metropolitan’ crowd, bustling or strolling the pavements, all types of people, some noisy and demonstrative, others engaged in their own private thoughts. The woman I followed weaved in and out of the throng, awkwardly at first, as if drunk, but beginning to pick up coordination as she went. I kept to the gutter to avoid people, occasionally stepping aside for those pedestrians who joined me there for speed. Oneway traffic slowly passed me by from behind, but naturally was never a threat; metalwork and wing mirrors went straight through my left side.
Up ahead, the woman stopped and seemed to be accosting a man who was probably just past middle age, an American tourist by the look of his loud outfit and the camcorder hanging by a strap around his neck. I caught up in time to hear him say: ‘No thank you, dear. I’m happily married.’
She rudely brushed past him and he turned around to watch her incursion back into the crowd. With a bemused shake of his head, he resumed his own journey.
Next, she stopped a black guy, a big man, smartly dressed, somewhere in his late thirties. I was too far behind to catch her words – maybe they were softly spoken, the hubbub around us easily drowning them. The tall guy looked her up and down, then laughed aloud. He didn’t say anything, but just pushed by, shaking his head and continuing to laugh.
‘Crazy bitch,’ I heard him say as he passed close to me.
Other people were turning to stare and I assume they thought she was drunk because of the unsteady way she progressed along the pavement, bumping into some pedestrians, swearing loudly at others so that they quickly dodged out of her path. Just before she reached a brightly lit newsagent’s selling Arabian journals and magazines, three sallow-complexioned gentlemen came out, voices raised high in their own language, laughing together and generally in a cheerful mood. The woman strode up to them and once again said something I couldn’t quite catch. I caught just enough, though, to understand that she was propositioning all three.
At first they gawped at her in surprise, obviously taking in her smart business clothes and appearance, before looking at each other. Two of them burst out laughing, a cackling sound that somehow managed to be insulting to the woman, but the third studied her face and body with interest. He murmured something to the other two, which initiated some nodding of heads, their laughter dissolving into wide lascivious grins. The first one took the woman’s arm and said something softly into her ear. I presumed it was in English, because she instantly hung onto one of his companions’ arms as if about to totter. She found herself supported by the two, one on either side. They led her away, a happy foursome, two of them jabbering excitedly, the Arab who’d replied to her proposition more reserved, although plainly eager. I kept to the gutter, almost abreast of them, dodging pedestrians who stepped off the kerb to avoid the group, a sick feeling in my stomach.
Was this why Moker had taken over the woman’s body, to indulge in sex with strangers, to debase her, soil her? But why? What was the point? To live vicariously through her for a short while? I was sure my first thoughts were right as I recalled the television and newspaper pictures of the previous victims, all o
f whom were smart and successful career people.
Moker wanted to be them, if only for a short while. And he wanted to enjoy what was probably impossible for him, because of his awful facial disfigurement, through them. He had possessed the fresh corpses for a while – did the bodies finally lose all strength and motion, was their after-death condition a very temporary situation? – only to degrade them, shame them, perhaps even to enjoy them. Only when he was satisfied – physically as well as mentally? – did he leave their bodies in some lonely place where he could return to mutilate them without interruption.
The four people I was following, three Arabs and one dead woman, suddenly changed direction and, using a busy zebra crossing close to a big corner store, crossed the road. I trailed behind.
The men were dressed smartly, two of them in light summer suits despite the obvious autumn chill; the third one, the serious one, had on an expensive-looking leather jacket. All wore good-quality shirts and ties and their shoes were highly polished. They might have been brothers, so similar were their features, although one of the suited men was a little overweight, his paunch overhanging his belt. His hair was sparser too, a light-brown shiny pate beneath carefully groomed hairs, which caught reflections from the lights spilling from the shops and the big store. On the other side of the road, they diverted into a sidestreet, and I noticed they had stopped talking now. Nobody was laughing anymore, either.
The woman’s legs suddenly gave way and she almost fell to her knees, but the men gripped her tightly, hauling her up again and supporting her, their faces now grim, angry even. The one in the leather jacket snapped at her and I heard her burble something incoherent. She plodded along between two of them, her motion still unsteady, but not as bad as a moment ago.