Sleepless

by Lou Morgan

  “As long as it’s just your face,” she said pointedly, collecting a bunch of empty coffee mugs from the table. “Can you overdose on coffee?”

  “Dunno. But at about 1am, I thought my heart was about to explode.”

  “Maybe that’s a better way to go.”

  “Wow. You’re just a bundle of joy, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry.” She shrugged and stumbled through into the kitchen. Her phone was sitting on the worktop. “Should we try calling them now?”

  “I was just thinking the same.” He followed her, and leaned against the doorway in an unsettling echo of the night before.

  “Then I thought that it’s too early, and they’d all be asleep, but…”

  “But. Exactly. Time doesn’t make a whole lot of sense any more, does it?” He scooped up her phone and tossed it to her. She almost dropped the phone twice, as she tried to catch it.

  “Who? Mia or Tigs?”

  “Better make it Tigs. She’ll sulk if we call Mia first, and I can’t face the thought of her being sulky and sleep-deprived.” Grey was apparently refusing to take the situation seriously. Izzy couldn’t decide whether that made her love him or hate him.

  Tigs didn’t answer her phone. “Maybe the battery’s flat,” Izzy said, as she hung up from Tigs’s voicemail.

  “Maybe she’s dead.”

  “Grey!”

  “Look, it’s something we’re going to have to think about. I mean, we chose to stay here and not go looking for them. You have to face facts. We might be the only two left.”

  Without warning, the room wheeled around her. Everything was spinning and there was a high-pitched sound in her ears. Grey’s words may as well have been a slap. What if they were the only two left? What if, by locking themselves away with coffee and, of all things, old horror movies, they had left the others to their fate? She no longer felt numb – she felt sick. Sick and dirty and guilty.

  The ringing noise faded out in time for her to hear the end of Grey’s little spiel. “…our story straight.”

  “What?”

  “I said, we need to figure out what we’re going to say. To tell people. You know, if it ends up with just us.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “What part of this don’t you get, Iz?”

  “The part where we just ditch our friends and leave them to die – and then lie about it. No.”

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “Yes.” She backed away from the worktop. The floor beneath her felt soft, spongey. If she trod on it too heavily, if she wasn’t careful, it would swallow her. “We go and find them.”

  “Izzy…”

  “You can stay here if you want. I can’t. I shouldn’t have in the first place.” She spun to face him, only just keeping her balance. “We should have all stuck together.”

  “You’re going. That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Let’s hope we’re not too late.” She didn’t wait for him to answer or to see whether he would follow, but pushed past him and out through the front door.

  In the lobby, the porter was having an argument with a couple of lift mechanics.

  “No, I’m sorry, but you’re not leaving them like that. We can’t be two lifts down for that long.” He nodded to her as she hurried past, then went back to arguing about shutting down the lifts. It sounded like the argument had been going on for some time. As she shouldered open the heavy glass door and stepped out into the day, the summer air wrapped around her. It still smelled clean, fresher than it would by the end of the afternoon when the traffic fumes had built up, and the cars and buses kicked up all the day’s dust from the roads. The usual sounds of the lorries leaving Smithfield, of the market packing up and closing down, were missing – everything had been shut down the second they discovered Juliet.

  Juliet. Izzy found herself looking around, just in case, but she was still alone. Behind her, the door to the lobby of Lauderdale banged, and by the sound of the footsteps hurrying after her, it had to be Grey. Obviously he’d decided that she was right. Either that or he didn’t want to be left by himself. The memory of the second Grey, the fake Grey, flickered through her mind, but that Grey had made a lot less noise than the real one.

  From Lauderdale’s forecourt, Izzy could see the roof of Juliet’s house. If she stood on tiptoe and looked all the way across the gardens and the lake, she would be able to see the waterfall where, with a shudder, she realized Dom must still be lying. She could see the balcony of Mia and Dom’s apartment, where Noah had told them everything. It felt like it was days ago; weeks. And the party in the garden had been a different life – someone else’s. It had been a dream, and this? This was a nightmare.

  Grey was now looking down at Juliet’s house, too. His hands in the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders slouching forward.

  “Let’s try Tigs,” she said, and Grey nodded silently.

  They took the steps up to the main level of the Barbican – the podium, which acted as a sort of raised ground floor. They reached the top of the steps together, standing aside to let a knot of tourists hurry past on their way to Barbican Tube station. A woman with long blonde hair appeared from behind a column, almost crashing into them. She squeaked with surprise. “Sorry! I’m just trying to work out the way to the Tube?” Her fringe fell into her eyes as she looked from one to the other of them, and Izzy wondered what she saw. Grey smiled and pointed to the thick yellow line painted on the ground.

  “Just follow that,” he said. The woman nodded her thanks and hurried off.

  The yellow line was, like many things in the Barbican, a running joke to residents – it snaked around the more public walkways and was supposed to guide visitors through the labyrinth, either to the Barbican Centre or to the exits on to the street, but all it usually did was confuse everyone even more. In some places it had been worn away; in others, it disappeared into a solid wall. Once, in a far corner of the Barbican, someone had got hold of a can of paint in exactly the same shade of yellow and had cheerfully drawn impossible-to-follow lines that went up walls, over balconies and across the ceilings of some of the walkways. For a while, it had been funny to hang around nearby and watch the baffled tourists try to figure out how to climb vertical concrete. This time, however, the yellow line seemed to be doing its job and the lost woman headed off towards the station.

  “What do we do if Tigs isn’t home?” Grey asked the question Izzy had been trying not to think about.

  “I guess we try Mia’s. Or Kara’s.”

  “Kara’s place is right by that building site, Iz. I don’t think we’re getting anywhere near it.”

  “Well, then.” Izzy stopped walking. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That sound.” She cocked her head sideways, straining to pick it up again. There had definitely been something – it had sounded like someone calling her name.

  “Nope.”

  “Weird.”

  “Ignore it. You know it’s just in your…” Grey tailed off. He was staring ahead of them, at the covered walkway that ended beside Shakespeare Tower. The exact spot where Izzy had walked into him while trying to get away from her invisible stalker. “You don’t…” He stopped and started again. “You don’t see someone standing there, do you? Watching us?”

  Izzy stared into the mouth of the tunnel so hard that she started to see spots. Shadows moved and green splodges swirled across her vision, but there certainly wasn’t a person there. Grey, however, kept looking.

  “There was a guy there, all dressed in black. He was looking at us, I swear. And then he moved back against the wall and I lost him.”

  “You’re sure he’s real?”

  “Tell me, Iz. When you’ve seen things – and I mean seen them – have they looked like just some random dude leaning against a wall?”

  “Not exactly…” Only, she thought, if the random dude was peeling off his own face.

  “Come on,�
� said Grey, and without warning he took her hand, tugging her forward.

  “What…?” Izzy didn’t get the chance to object any further as he was dragging her towards the walkway. It gaped at them, ready to swallow them both. Had it always been so dark? She couldn’t remember. Everything was harder to remember. The soles of her feet ached with each step they took and yet Grey pulled her along with him, determined.

  “I’m telling you – I saw someone.”

  “Did you? Did you really, or do you just think you did?”

  He didn’t reply.

  Perhaps it was because she didn’t usually walk through the tunnel from this end, she’d always just used it as a shortcut home from the Barbican Centre, but now, it felt wrong. It felt odd and off-kilter. The ventilation slats that covered the walls looked closer together than usual and sharper, too. The pools of light filtering down from the lightwells looked sickly and everything seemed to be pressing in on them. Was the ceiling always so low?

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Shh.” He was still peering straight ahead – she was just a passenger as far as he was concerned. Maybe he had seen someone. Maybe there was someone watching them. Maybe there had been all along, and maybe whoever it was wanted them dead… But how could you tell what was real and what wasn’t? The scalpel cut on Izzy’s cheek began to sting again as she struggled to keep pace with Grey. Her fingers hurt where he held them, he was holding on to her so tightly. Too tightly.

  With frightening speed, Grey dropped her hand, then whipped around and grabbed her by the shoulder, nearly lifting her off her feet as he slammed her back against the vents. Hot air rushed down her back, blowing her hair out around her face and into her eyes.

  “What are you doing?” she shouted over the hum of the fans.

  He didn’t answer – didn’t even show any sign that he’d heard her – and just kept her pressed against the sharp metal edges of the louvres with his fist. His eyes were flat and cold. The warmth had gone from them and all that was left was steel-grey. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t her.

  “Grey!”

  There wasn’t even a flicker of recognition on his face. Nothing. He was a stranger. It was his face, yes, but the person looking back at her was somebody else. And he was not her friend.

  “Let me go…” She pulled forward, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but with a sudden jerk of his hand he shoved her back again. Her head caught the edge of one of the vents and the world became suddenly fuzzy, blackening around the edges. She was going to faint. She couldn’t faint. Fainting counted as going to sleep, didn’t it? If she fainted…

  The darkness clogged her vision, and still he held her. The fingers of his free hand were clenching, unclenching. Clenching, unclenching.

  Everything was going dark. Her knees couldn’t hold her up much longer – if he let go, she would fall.

  His free hand.

  She had a free hand, too.

  Blinking back the dark, she raised her hand – and she slapped him across his cheek.

  Startled, he stepped back, releasing her, and she slumped to the floor.

  Still seeing stars from the knock to her head, she shook herself, trying to clear her vision. Grey just stood there and blinked down at her. Would he recognize her now? Was he himself again?

  She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  Scrabbling for grip on the floor of the walkway, she dragged herself to her feet and turned and ran for all she was worth.

  Izzy ran, even though her body ached and her head was pounding. Even though her heart was beating so fast she thought it would split open. The sound of her feet echoed all around her, and she couldn’t tell whether his footsteps were there, too. She skidded to a halt in front of a side door to the Centre and pushed through it, still running. People stared at her as she passed, but she didn’t care. She ran to the stairs and piled down them until she ran out of steps on the lakeside level. Tumbling out of the stairwell, she looked around desperately for somewhere she could go, somewhere she could hide until whatever it was that had got into Grey passed. If it did pass.

  An idea hit her, and she was running again – this time for the wide, shallow stairs in the middle of the Centre, down to the theatre and the cloakrooms. It was the only place she could think of. She raced down the stairs to the lowest level of the Barbican and looked around. It was deserted. Suddenly, being alone didn’t seem like the best idea.

  The frosted glass door to the women’s toilets was right in front of her, and she ran for it. Somewhere above her, she thought she heard someone calling her name again.

  The door swung closed behind her with a gentle swoosh. She was alone. She was safe. For now.

  Groaning, she leaned on the nearest sink and let the water run; splashing water on to her face. It wasn’t him, she knew that. It wasn’t Grey’s fault, exactly…

  He really hadn’t known it was her.

  He could have done anything.

  Yet again, the image of Juliet flashed in front of her, swinging from the hook and cable, and the conversation she’d had with Grey echoed in her ears.

  They’re going to say that Noah did that to Jools.

  They can’t! It’s not true!

  For the first time, Izzy began to wonder whether he’d been right.

  She could feel the sweat drying across her face, feel her skin tightening underneath it. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how hard she tried to steady them. The water spluttered and then began to flow smoothly again, pouring into the basin as a cool and steady stream. She splashed more of it on to her face, rubbing wet fingers across the back of her neck and across her forehead. Anything to make herself feel better. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and leaned her head on the mirror over the sink.

  “It’s fine. You’re fine. All fine,” she whispered to herself.

  It was working. Her lungs were no longer screaming for air and her heart didn’t feel like someone was flamenco dancing up and down the inside of her ribcage. She pushed the thoughts of Juliet and Noah out of her head. She had to, however bad she felt about doing it. This was about her now.

  “OK. All fine,” she said, pulling away from the mirror and opening her eyes.

  The porcelain of the sink was streaked with black. She held up a hand in front of her face – that, too, was covered in something black and sticky like tar. The water pouring from the tap wasn’t water any longer, and it didn’t pour – it oozed thickly, splattering the sides of the sink with a noxious-smelling liquid. Slowly, Izzy raised her eyes to the mirror…

  Her face was covered in it; it was smeared through her hair and round her throat. Her hands dripped with it. The smell, something part chemical, part animal, made her gag. She tried to turn it off, her fingers slipping on the metal, but the tap wouldn’t budge. If anything, it came faster and faster until it was not just splattering the sink but filling it with sludge. The stench was overwhelming and it was everywhere. Desperately, Izzy fumbled with the tap, pulling on it again and again until it began to turn. Slowly at first, then more and more, until the flow of sludge slowed to a drip and then stopped altogether.

  Her heart pounding just as heavily as it ever had, Izzy looked up at her reflection in the mirror again.

  It was clean.

  So was the sink.

  There was nothing there but splashes of water, and a lingering smell that could have been the drains.

  Pulling a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, she dried her hands and face, and took yet another deep breath to calm herself. That hadn’t been fun. None of it was fun. Besides, she couldn’t stay in the bathroom all day, could she? The longer she stayed there, the less safe she was. And what about Grey? She felt a twinge of guilt. Hadn’t she just told him that they needed to find the others and stay together? And then hadn’t she just run away and left him? What was she thinking?

  “You were thinking that you didn’t want to get yourself killed, let alone have Grey be the one that did it. Seems
fair enough to me. How’s your mind holding up, by the way? Still feeling sane?”

  She froze.

  The voice that had spoken – had answered the question she hadn’t actually said out loud – was hers.

  But Izzy hadn’t even opened her mouth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Izzy turned slowly towards the voice. It had come from the far end of the row of cubicles.

  Her voice. Hers.

  She looked.

  One side of the bathroom was taken up by the row of toilet cubicles, the other by a line of sinks and mirrors with one larger, floor-to-ceiling mirror taking up the whole of the far wall. Izzy could see herself reflected in it, staring back out. But there was no door reflected behind her – and then her reflection took a step forward.

  It wasn’t a mirror at all, it was an archway through into the next section of the bathroom.

  And she wasn’t seeing a reflection. She was seeing … something else.

  She spun on her heel, desperate to get to the door, but a hand reached over Izzy’s shoulder from behind and slammed it shut again.

  “Nuh-uh,” said the voice in her ear, and she turned to face herself.

  The Izzy she was looking at was grinning unpleasantly at her. There was a vivid white mark on her cheek where real Izzy knew the scalpel cut was on her own face, and her lips were tinged with blue. The fingernails of the hand that was holding the door shut were longer, broken, dirty, and her hair was lank and matted. The drain smell in the bathroom was stronger, the usual air freshener mingling with something else – a smell of rotten meat and damp wood.

  “Can’t run from yourself, can you?”

  “You’re not real. I’m real.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself? What is real, anyway, when you get down to the guts and bones of it?”

  “You. Aren’t. Real.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?” The imaginary Izzy wasn’t listening, and Izzy recoiled as her double leaned closer and rubbed a cheek against her own. It was cold and unpleasantly clammy, and made Izzy think of a dead fish. The smell was almost overwhelming – even before the fake Izzy reached for her and ran a hand through her hair, trailing her fingertips across her face and lips. Izzy gagged, and before she could pull away, her double had forced her fingers into Izzy’s mouth and clamped her other hand around the back of Izzy’s head. A foul taste flooded her mouth as the other Izzy yanked her closer to her. Her grip was utterly pitiless as the tips of her fingers pressed further back into Izzy’s mouth, stretching for her throat.