Filed to story: The Ink Black Heart Read Online Free (PDF/ePuB) >>
Still she flees, and ever fiercer tear the hungry hounds behind,
Still she flees, and ever faster follow there the huntsmen on…
Amy Levy
Run to Death
‘What was all that about?’ asked Pat in her gravelly voice.
‘She wanted us to investigate someone who’s persecuting her online,’ said Robin.
Even though it was true that they had no room for another client, and that the agency didn’t specialise in cyber-investigations, Robin wished she could have taken Edie Ledwell’s case. The more successful the agency had become, the higher the proportion of unlikeable individuals who gravitated towards it. Of course, those seeking to prove infidelity or treachery were by definition under a certain amount of strain, but some of their recent clients, most notably the billionaire of South Audley Street, had showed a definite tendency to treat Robin as a skivvy, and Edie Ledwell’s ingenuous ‘I was hoping for you’ had touched Robin. Through the glass door came the sound of the noisy flush of the toilet off the landing and Robin saw the dark shadow of Edie’s black coat pass the door, then heard her footsteps clanging away down the metal stairs.
‘You turned her down?’ rasped Pat, after taking a long drag on her e-cigarette.
‘Had to,’ said Robin, moving towards the kitchen area. She just had time for a cup of tea before leaving for Acton.
‘Good,’ said Pat bluntly, returning to her typing. ‘I didn’t take to her.’
‘Why not?’ said Robin, turning to look at the office manager.
‘Drama queen, if you ask me. Her hair could do with a good brush too.’
Used to Pat’s uncompromising snap judgements, which were rooted largely in people’s appearance and occasionally on their superficial resemblance to people she’d previously known, Robin didn’t bother contradicting her.
‘Want a tea?’ she asked as the kettle boiled.
‘Lovely, thanks,’ said Pat, e-cigarette waggling as she continued typing.
Robin made both of them drinks then returned to the inner office, closed the door and resumed her seat at the partners’ desk. After staring abstractedly at the Groomer file for a few seconds, Robin pushed it aside, turned on the PC and typed ‘ink black heart animation’ into Google.
‘Indie cartoon attracts cult following… ‘ ‘breakout success… ‘ ‘From YouTube to Hollywood: will The Ink Black Heart find big screen favour?’
Robin opened YouTube, found episode one of the cartoon, and pressed play.
An eerie, tinkling piano played over swirling, animated mist, which slowly cleared to reveal tombstones by moonlight. The shot tracked through stone angels overgrown with ivy until a translucent female figure was revealed, standing alone, pearly white among the graves.
‘Sad, so very sad,’ sighed the ghost, and although her face was rendered simply, it was odd how sinister her little smile was.
She turned and drifted off through the graves, dissolving into the darkness. In the foreground, with an unpleasant squelch, something shiny and black appeared to burst out of the ground. It turned to face the viewer, and Robin saw that it was a jet-black human heart with a smiling, innocent face completely at odds with its otherwise grotesque appearance. Robin vaguely registered the sound of the glass door outside opening again, as the heart waved a severed artery and said, in the jaunty timbre of a children’s television presenter:
‘Hello! I’m Harty. I live here in Highgate Cemetery with my friends. You might be wondering why I didn’t decay—’
There was a knock on the inner door and Midge walked in without waiting for a response.
‘—well, that’s because I’m evil!’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Midge, ‘I thought it was your afternoon off. I need the—’
She broke off, looking disconcerted, and moved around behind Robin to look at the screen, where Harty was now bounding between graves, introducing a variety of characters crawling out of the ground to join him.
‘You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,’ said Midge, looking appalled. ‘You an’ all?’
Robin muted the cartoon.
‘What d’you mean, me and all?’
‘My ex was fookin’ obsessed with that bloody cartoon. It’s shit. Like something you’d make up when you were tripping.’
‘I’ve never seen it before today,’ said Robin. ‘One of the creators was just in here, wanting us to do a job for her.’
‘Who – what’s-her-name Ledwell?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, surprised that Midge had the name on the tip of her tongue.
Correctly reading Robin’s expression, Midge said,
‘Beth hated her.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘No idea,’ said Midge. ‘That fandom’s toxic. “Play the game, bwah!”’ she added in a squeaky voice.
‘What?’ said Robin, half-laughing.
‘It’s one of the catchphrases. In the cartoon. Beth was always sayin’ it if I didn’t wanna do something. “Play the game, bwah!” Fookin’ ridiculous. She used to play the fookin’ game, too. Online.’
‘The one made by Anomie?’ said Robin, interested.
‘No idea who made it. Childish bollocks,’ said Midge, picking the Groomer file off the desk. ‘Mind if I take this? Got notes to add.’
‘Carry on.’
As Midge left the room, Robin’s mobile rang: it was Strike. She pressed pause on the muted cartoon.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ said Strike, who sounded as though he was somewhere busy: she could hear traffic. ‘Sorry, I know it’s your afternoon off—’
‘No problem,’ said Robin, ‘I’m still at the office. I’ve got a flat viewing in Acton at six; there didn’t seem much point going home first.’
‘Ah, OK,’ said Strike. ‘I wondered how you’d feel about swapping jobs tomorrow? It’d be more convenient for me to do Sloane Square instead of Camden.’
‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ said Robin. On the computer screen in front of her, the black heart stood frozen, pointing into the dark doorway of a mausoleum.
‘Thanks, appreciate it,’ said Strike. ‘Everything all right?’ he added, because he detected an odd note in Robin’s voice.
‘Fine, it’s just – we had a Gateshead in just now. Well, Pat thought she was a Gateshead. She wasn’t really. Have you ever heard of The Ink Black Heart?’
‘No. What is it, a pub?’
‘A cartoon,’ said Robin, pressing play again. The animation was still muted: Harty backed fearfully away from a figure emerging slowly from the tomb’s doorway. It was large, hunched and cloaked in black, with an exaggerated beak-like face. ‘One of the creators wanted us to investigate a fan who’s giving her grief online.’
‘Huh,’ said Strike. ‘What did you say?’
‘That we had no room, but I told her Patterson Inc and McCabes both do cyber-investigation.’
‘Hm. I don’t love giving Patterson work.’
‘I wanted to help her,’ said Robin with a trace of defensiveness. ‘She was in a bit of a state.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Strike. ‘Well, thanks for the swap, I owe you one.’
After Strike had rung off, Robin unmuted the cartoon. She watched for another minute or so, but couldn’t make much sense of it. Perhaps she’d missed key plot points while it was on mute, but on balance she had to agree with Midge: except that it was beautifully animated, it had the air of a stoner’s macabre fantasy.
She was just about to turn off the PC when Pat knocked and entered the room again.
‘This was in the bathroom,’ said Pat, brandishing the cardboard folder. ‘That scruffy girl must’ve left it. It was on top of the cistern.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin, taking it. ‘Right… well, she might come back for it. If not, we should find an address to send it on to. You couldn’t have a quick look and see whether she’s got an agent or something, could you, Pat? Her name’s Edie Ledwell.’
Pat gave a sniff that clearly implied she liked Edie Ledwell no better for having forgotten her folder, and left the room.
Robin waited for the door to close before opening the folder. Edie had printed out a large number of Anomie’s tweets, which she’d annotated in distinctive swooping handwriting.
Anomie had more than fifty thousand Twitter followers. Robin started flicking through the tweets, which were now out of date order, having fallen to the floor.
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
Those buying Fedwell’s sob stories of poverty should know her well-off uncle gave her 2 big lots of cash in early noughties. #EdieLiesWell
4.21 pm 22 Sep 2011
Edie had written beneath the tweet: Anomie calls me either ‘Greedie Fedwell’ because I’m a recovered bulimic and because obviously I only care about money or ‘Edie Lieswell’ because I’m supposed to lie non-stop about my past and about my inspiration. It’s true my uncle gave me some cash. £200 the first time and then £500. I was homeless the second time. He gave me the money and told me he couldn’t do anything else for me. Josh knows this and could easily have told Seb.
Robin turned to the next page.
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
Fedwell laughs in private about basing prize bitch Paperwhite on black ex-flatmate by name of Shereece Summers. Keep punching down Greedie.
3.45 am 24 January 2015
I told Seb I’d sort of borrowed bits of Shereece when we fleshed out the character of Paperwhite the ghost, but I never told anyone else she was part of the inspiration.
Robin looked at the next tweet.
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
Interesting news, game fans. #GreedieFedwell might despise OUR game, but turns out she’s expert at another kind #OnTheGame
Max R @mreger#5
Not proud of it, but I paid @EdLedDraws for a blow job back in 2002
4.21 pm 13 April 2012
This, Edie had written, is one of his favourite ploys. He gets other haters he’s friendly with to do his dirty work for him, making up claims he can retweet, so he can’t be reported for coming up with the bullshit himself.
Robin turned another page.
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
Hearing Edie Ledwell has ‘attempted suicide’. No comment from agent
Anyone got more info?
10.59 pm 24 May 2014
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
Source tells me she’s in Kensington Hospital. Alleged overdose
11.26 pm 24 May 2014
Beneath this, Edie had written: Anomie knew this had happened within hours. I thought Josh was the only person who knew.
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
Hmmmmm . .…
Johnny B @jbaldw1n1>>
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
well, that’s strange, because my sister works at that hospital and saw her walking in unaided and laughing
12.16 pm 24 May 2014
Bullshit. I didn’t walk into the hospital. I can’t remember anything about getting there, I was unconscious. This Johnny guy is another one of his little helper elves, feeding him lies.
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
?
Sally Anne Jones @SAJ345_>
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
Not being funny but that hospital does a lot of cosmetic procedures. Seems like there would have been a statement if she’d overdosed?
1.09 pm 24 May 2014
This Sally Anne is a sock-puppet account, created the same evening and never tweeted again. They’ve been saying I had a nose job ever since.
Beneath this were a few responses to the news of Ledwell’s attempted suicide.
Max R @mreger#5
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
I call bullshit. She’s gone to get her massive fkn nose done #Nosegate
Lepines Disciple @LepinesD1sciple
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
Anyone live close to hospital? Should be easy to photograph her coming out #Nosegate
Algernon Gizzard Esq @Gizzard_Al
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
death by botched nose job would be fkn hysterical
😂😂😂
DrekIsMySpiritAnimal @playDreksgame
replying to @Gizzard_Al @LepinesD1sciple
@AnomieGamemaster
😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
Zozo @inkyheart28
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
Stop luaghing at this . what if its real .
Laura May @May_Flower*
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
if she’s genuinely tried to kill herself what you’re doing is not ok
Andi Reddy @ydderidna
replying to @May_Flower* @AnomieGamemaster
there would’ve been a statement if she’d really done it #trollingforsympathy
Robin checked her watch: it was time to leave if she wanted to see the Acton flat. Closing the folder, she carried it back outside with her empty mug. Midge was sitting on the sofa, busy adding her notes to the Groomer file.
‘Got any plans for this evening?’ asked Pat as Robin took down her coat from the peg beside the door.
‘Viewing a flat in Acton,’ said Robin. ‘I hope to God it’s better than the last place I saw. There was mould all over the bathroom ceiling and the basin was coming away from the wall. The estate agent said it was a “fixer-upper”.’
‘London fookin’ property,’ mumbled Midge without looking up. ‘I’m living in a virtual fookin’ eggbox.’
Robin bade the other two women goodbye, then left. It was chilly down on Denmark Street. As she walked towards the Tube station, she found herself scanning passers-by for Edie Ledwell, who might by now have noticed that she’d left her folder behind, but there was no sign of her.
It was nearly rush hour. Something she couldn’t put her finger on was nagging at Robin. She’d reached the top of the escalator before she realised it had nothing to do with Edie Ledwell or her cartoon.
Strike wasn’t scheduled to work this evening, so where exactly was he spending the night that made it more convenient for him to stake out Fingers’ flat in Sloane Square the following morning, rather than Legs’ school in Camden?