Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

I jam Fred’s key into the lock. The cuff around Thistle’s ankle pops open. ‘Now, stay close to me. There—’

She kicks me in the side of the head. A bomb goes off inside my skull. The other side of my head hits the floor. The slaughterhouse is spinning around me like a theme park ride. My guts churn and I fight the urge to puke.

‘Hit him again!’ someone screams.

‘Kill him!’ someone else roars.

I never expected a peaceful death—old, in hospital, holding hands with someone who cares about me. Nor could I hope for a meaningful death, like getting killed in a just war, or even a normal death, like a car accident. My demise was always going to be something senseless and bizarre, like getting kerb-stomped to a pulp by the woman I love in an old slaughterhouse.

But Thistle doesn’t do that. Instead, I hear her bare feet slap the concrete as she flees.

‘Wait!’ I stand up and immediately stumble sideways into the shelves of the fake pharmacy. The pill bottles don’t fall off—they’re glued in place.

Thistle is slipping through the open door. I stagger after her, the ringing in my ears worse than ever. My ear itself feels slightly crushed.

Finally I reach the door. The frame bruises my shoulder as I barge through.

‘Thistle?’ I hiss. ‘Thistle!’

No response. But at least she didn’t run towards the house—I can hear her, crunching through the forest to my right. It’s only a matter of time before she blunders into the viewing angle of one of the cameras.

I chase after her. I’m still dizzy, but she’s barefoot. Soon I can see her in the moonlight up ahead, running between the trees.

‘Thistle! Wait!’

She doesn’t turn. I catch up. At the last second, she spins around and attacks me with a left hook. It’s a hell of a punch—it might have broken my neck if I hadn’t tripped on a root at exactly the same moment. I blunder into her with an accidental tackle. We both hit the ground in an explosion of dead leaves.

‘No!’ Thistle tries to struggle out from under me.

‘Stop!’ I say. ‘There are cameras everywhere. Just stop.’

She pauses. ‘Cameras?’

‘Right. Plus a motion sensor on the driveway. Plus some fucking scary assholes in that house, one of whom is awake. Please, please, just let me help you.’

We’re almost face to face in the dark. I can feel her breath on my cheek. Even this close, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

‘What’s your angle?’ she says. ‘I want the truth.’

‘I’m trying to save your life.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why,’ I say.

‘I don’t. I don’t understand you at all, Blake.’

‘I’m not with these guys,’ I say, gesturing back towards the house. ‘I tracked Fred down, but he turned out to have company. I had to pretend to be Lux so they wouldn’t kill me.’

‘Don’t bullshit me,’ Thistle snaps. ‘I found a human head in your fucking freezer.’

‘You did,’ I say. ‘But I didn’t kill him.’

‘Oh, yeah? Who did?’

‘Nobody. He died of a heart attack.’

‘Then what the fuck was he doing in your—’

‘I was gonna eat him.’

Finally the words are out. This terrible secret that I’ve been keeping for my whole life.

Thistle stares at me. She will never love me after this. But if she doesn’t understand, she won’t do what I say. Telling the truth is the only way to save her.

‘Eat him,’ she repeats.

‘I found his body,’ I say. ‘I took it home so I could eat it.’ She just stares.

‘Look, I’m sick in the head, okay?’ I say. ‘I admit that. But I’m not gonna kill you. I’m your only hope of getting out of here.’

‘Eat him,’ she says again.

The idea must be hard to digest. ‘I eat people. But I’m not a killer. Well, I have killed people, but only in self-defence. Not for food. Although in some cases I did eat them afterwards, but that’s not the reason I—look, can we discuss this on the way?’

CHAPTER 29

What kind of dog has a bark, but no bite?

Thistle follows me through the forest like a sleepwalker. As if she thinks she might be dreaming.

As we make our way towards the garage—taking a winding route to avoid the cameras—I give her the whole story. What happened to my parents. The abuse at the group home. The would-be mugger who got his throat bitten out. The corrupt FBI director, offering me death-row cadavers in exchange for cases solved. The gangster who offered me the bodies of her enemies. Parts of this Thistle knew already, but I can see on her face that they’re starting to make more sense with context.

You’d think it would be a relief to say all this out loud. It’s not. Instead of disappearing, the guilt that I’ve lived with my whole life metastasises into shame. Thistle says nothing, but I can feel her growing horror as she listens.

‘Camera just there,’ I say. ‘Go left.’

She obeys. We walk in silence for a minute. My guts twist as I wonder what she’s thinking.

‘The severed head,’ she says finally.

‘You’re really stuck on that,’ I say.

‘It wasn’t … chewed.’

‘I guess I never got around to it.’

She shudders. ‘What I mean is, are you sure you’re not imagining it?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve known you a long time. I never saw any evidence that you were eating people. Are you sure it’s not just a delusion?’

This has occurred to me from time to time. It’s a drawback of being so good at destroying evidence. Without proof, memory and imagination get all mashed together.

This is an opportunity to take back my confession. To convince her that I’m just crazy and not actually a monster.

I don’t take it. ‘I’m sure.’

We trudge on. Someone should put you