Vicious Circle by Mike Carey Read Free Book Online

whom the original Charles Stanger had murdered in the late forties—before being sent down for life and endowing the institution that now carries his name. They’d spent the next fifty years tied to the stones of the old cottages like dogs chained up in a yard. Most ghosts are tethered to a particular place, more often than not the place where they died. It was just a cruel irony that in this case it meant the girls had to rub shoulders with the criminally insane for the rest of eternity—or at least, for as long as the Stanger stayed open. But about a year or so ago I’d given them a private concert: used my tin whistle to play a fragment of an exorcism to them in this same garden, so that although they weren’t banished from the place they were free to leave it. Since then I’d heard rumors of sightings as far afield as the Trocadero and Shadwell Stair, but they still seemed to use the Stanger as a base. I guess they were used to the place now: after half a century, it was as close to being home as anywhere they knew. I kept expecting them to move on—I mean, on to whatever else there is when this world has worn out its welcome—but obviously they still hadn’t taken that inevitable step.
    I walked on through the gardens, eventually circling around to the far side of the building where they gave out at last onto the asphalt apron of the car park. It was after midnight now, so the place was deserted except for a few staff cars and Pen’s old Mondeo. Paul was leaning against the side of an ambulance in lonely splendor, smoking a fairly pungent cigarillo. He was looking glum.
    “How’s life?” I asked, slowing to a halt.
    He blew out smoke, shook his head in disgust. “You should’ve asked me when I fuckin’ had one, man,” he said morosely. “My old lady keeps telling me to give this up, and fuck if she ain’t right. What do I need it for? My back feels like I did ten rounds with Tyson, my left eye’s closing over. Karen’s most likely got a concussion. And my man Rafael’s righteously fucked, poor bastard.”
    I was impressed that he could still worry about Rafi when Rafi’s evil passenger had just nearly done for the both of us. I was reminded once again of how much there was going on under that tanklike exterior. “Well I’m glad you put your retirement off until after tonight, anyway,” I said, meaning it. “You probably saved my life.”
    “Yeah, you’re welcome.”
    “Your boss is an arsehole, though.”
    “Got that right.”
    I leaned against the side of the ambulance next to him, but upwind of his cigar. “And Rafi will be okay. At least, he’ll be none the worse for anything that happened tonight.”
    Paul raised his eyebrows as he pondered this. “Cuts all over his face,” he mused. “Two broken fingers. Maybe a broken jaw. That shit on his chest looked like blisters—like he was catching fire from the inside.”
    “But you know I’m right. The fingers will reset themselves tonight. The jaw, too, if I actually broke it. The gouges and the burns will already have healed up: if you looked right now, there wouldn’t be a damn thing to see. Rafi’s got a very healthy immune system. I guess it’s all the good food and exercise.”
    Paul gave me a slightly fish-eyed stare, checking to see if any of that second-rate irony was at his expense. Then he shook his head again, giving it up. “That lady of yours,” he said, after taking another deep drag on the cigar, “she’s a class act, Castor. About as big as a high-heel shoe, but she just went for Rafael back there like it was a fair fight. Went for Dr. Webb, too.” He grinned wickedly. “That was the highlight of the fucking day. Truth.”
    “Yeah, Pen is one of a kind,” I agreed. “She’s not mine, though. I mean, she’s just a friend.” A whole lot of memories surged up from one of the less-frequented areas of my mind: I shoved them right back down again. “She’s—she and Rafi used to be—together. When we were