by Stephen Laws
Darkfall
Stephen Laws
The Brooligan Press
London
New York
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
First published in 1992 by New English Library, an imprint of Hodder and Stoughton
This edition published 2019 by The Brooligan Press
Stephen Laws has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner
Copyright © 1992 Stephen Laws
Dedicated to Mel, with Deepest Love
I’d like to say a big thank you to George Jackson and his colleagues at Northumbria Police for their invaluable assistance on operational detail and police procedure.
The aberrant behaviour of some of the characters in DARKFALL and their flouting of police rules and regulations are all inventions of the author and no resemblance to persons living, dead or undead is intended.
Prologue
A Storm was coming.
It was 3.00 p.m. on Christmas Eve. There was no snow, but the weather had been bad all day in the north-east of England. Winter had not yet vented its full fury on the city. Thin, miserable rain had been drizzling down since early morning without surcease, and the air contained a dank chill that was much worse than the clean, icy blast of a true winter’s wind. The rain seemed to have first been drawn from the thin and vapid miseries of the industrial towns below by the roiling, darkening clouds above. Unable to contain this misery any longer, the sky was giving it back.
The Storm began gradually, as it always did, bringing with it a myriad of symptoms to those living below. Headaches, nausea, neck pain, migraine, disorientation and a draining of energy. Parents became irritable, blaming Christmas and all its paraphernalia for their loss of temper with the kids, never dreaming that the onset of a storm always brought about such symptoms, not realising that sixty per cent of the population suffered at least one or more of these symptoms as the prelude to a thunderstorm.
Dogs scratched at doors and were let outside to do their business, where they vomited; another symptom of an oncoming storm. Cats fussed, could not settle, and would not be stroked. Cattle that had not yet been led to shelter lay down and would not move until coaxed.
Between pylons, the overhead power cables carrying five hundred kilovolts reacted to the gathering of the Storm. The electrical field around them began to swell, causing temporary power surges and black-outs throughout the region. Dozens of people living within close proximity to these pylons felt a prickling of anxiety, and discovered with only mild curiosity that the hairs on their arms were standing up, another not-unusual phenomenon.
The Storm gathered and moved over the city. Already, its thunderclouds were charged with electricity as it passed over the urban sprawl below. When the insulating properties of the air broke down, the clouds would be discharged with a momentary electric current . . . and the first lightning flash would occur. The chances of a lightning strike on a house or person are four per cent or one in twenty-five.
But this storm was different.
The office block stood fourteen storeys high on the edge of the city. In one of the walls of its Reception area was a brass plaque, revealing that the block had been christened ‘Fernley House’ on its opening by a civic dignitary ten years ago; the name deriving from the suburb of Newcastle upon Tyne in which it had been built. A great, granite-grey monolith, it occupied a sizeable wedge of ‘prime development site’ in the vee-shaped wedge between the two motorways that fed into the city. Streams of glittering traffic gushed down those concrete arteries, feeding the city with feverish and neurotic lifeblood. At the base of the office block, there was a forecourt and private car park for the use of the staff employed by the twelve companies that occupied its fourteen floors. The Ground Floor contained the main Reception area and elevators. Above that, a shipping firm, two administrative headquarters for national building societies, two firms of chartered accountants, an architect, three loan and investment firms, one computer wholesaler, one secretarial agency, and a sex-telephone operation.
From the third floor and above, it was possible on a clear night to see a Polytechnic college on the other side of one of the motorways. It was deserted now at the end of term. On the far side of the other motorway, it was also possible to see the first office blocks, factories and buildings of the city centre. But it was not a clear night tonight, and conditions were getting worse. The rain was harsher now and growing more intense by the minute.
Christmas parties were ongoing in the offices of five of the twelve companies. Alcohol flowed, temporary trysts were made and for the most part, the occupants of the office block were unconcerned that the weather conditions were harshening and might make it difficult for their respective journeys home. The concrete arteries on either side of the block were crowded with late Christmas shoppers battling through the slush and the wind into the city, while the denizens of the city centre were battling outwards. But inside Fernley House, on this eve of a celebration of peace and goodwill, the occupants were allowing themselves the indulgence of believing that everything would change; that the world would be a new and better place, that they would become new and better people. There was a change coming, but no one could guess in their wildest dreams what the nature of that change might be. Because it was also the Eve . . . of something else.
The Storm had ceased to move.
Its nucleus was here, in Fernley, and would stay here while it continued to build strength. The roiling clouds darkened from grey to black, and the first grumblings of thunder resounded within them.
It had begun.
Part One
Riders on the Storm
“This way for the sorrowful city
This way for eternal suffering
This way to join the lost people . . .
All hope abandon, ye who enter here!”
Dante: Inscription at the entrance to Hell
ONE
“Bastards,” grumbled Alec Beaton.
The boiler room beneath Fernley House was badly lit, and he had barked his shin on the staircase as he’d made his way down. Despite the winter chill outside, the temperature down below amidst these hissing, throbbing canisters was sub-tropical. Alec liked the warm air down here; it reminded him of older and better days when he was in the Navy. The boiler room was like a ship’s engine room, and the temperature also reminded him of some of the places he had visited in his youth before settling down in the bloody-freezing-cold north-east of England. They were days when he had commanded more respect than now . . . as janitor/caretaker of a bloody office block.
“Bastards,” he said again as he rubbed his shin and hobbled over to the far side of the boiler room. He was not in a good mood . . .
The only windows down here were set high up next to the ceiling, on the far wall. Although almost at ceiling-height in here, the windows were actually at pavement-level outside; half a dozen three-by-six rectangles of glass installed to give the boiler room some natural light. But there was no natural light tonight; just a rain-streaked blackness which further enhanced the fantasy which Alec often retreated into. He could not really see the bad weather beyond, could not see the glittering traffic on the highway. There were also no bloody Christmas decorations down here. In other words, nothing to remind him that the Spirit of
Bloody Goodwill had descended. There were three rolls of disintegrating carpet in the far corner. He moved over to them and, bones creaking, he knelt down, rubbed his sore shin again and began to turn them over. Earlier, he had ‘done his rounds’ of the offices upstairs . . . and it had been made plain by all of the snotty buggers up there that there would be no chance of a Christmas drink, or a tip. It was plain that they had no time for him. He’d tried his luck on four different floors—the ones he thought might bear fruit—but his luck was out. Apparently, the Season of Goodwill did not extend to him. Didn’t they appreciate how much he did for them all during the year? He was the one who supervised the cleaners, he was the one who cleared up their bloody mess, kept them warm in the winter and cool in the summer. He was the one who cleared their crappy mess up. But did they care? Did they bloody hell. They were all . . .
“Bastards,” said Alec again, flipping over the last roll of carpet. Spiders and silverfish beat a hasty retreat into darker places. He reached into the gap and found what he had hidden there. A bottle of Famous Grouse. Standing again, with a protest of creaking joints, Alec groaned, coughed out a wad of phlegm and made his way to the rickety chair by one of the boilers. The heat from that boiler was good for the bones. Sitting again, with a loud and overly emphatic sigh, he screwed the top from the bottle and took a deep swallow, closing his eyes.
Have a good time, you bastards, he thought. Enjoy yourselves. Get drunk, get laid, get stuffed. I’ll just sit here with Mr Grouse and squeeze you all out. What the hell do you know about life, any of you? I’ve been to places you’ll never see. Seen things you wouldn’t dream of. Done things you’ll never experience.
Alec took another swallow, feeling and hearing the boiler next to him give out its gently throbbing rhythm . . . just like the engines of a tramp steamer at sea.
TWO
Upstairs, on Floor 3, the party in the architects’ office was in full swing. The junior Partner had finally decided, under the influence of one gin too many, that the firm’s senior secretary was the girl he wanted to marry, after all. There were fifteen of them left now, the others had drifted away. But there was plenty of gin left, and he could wait. He sipped at his drink again, laughed at a joke that was being told by his colleague (even though he wasn’t listening) and looked up at the ceiling. There was a party going on up there, too. He could hear the music throbbing through the floor as he looked back again at the object of his desires.
THREE
On Floor 4, above the architects’ office, a party in one of the Chartered Accountants’ offices was destined, it seemed, to go on for ever. There were fifty-five people there, the bosses had finally gone home, and the girls in the general office had rigged up a makeshift disco for the purpose. Bruce Springsteen was hammering out a song as the punchbowl was refilled, principally with another full bottle of vodka. Now, if they could only keep that bloody old fool of a caretaker out of the office and ignore his whining about having to close the place for the night this promised to be the best party ever.
Alec wiped a hand across his mouth and opened his eyes again. The fantasy dream was beginning to turn sour. He wasn’t at sea, he wasn’t a million miles from this Godforsaken place. He was sitting on a crappy old chair with a bottle of whisky, down in the bowels of this bloody office block. The dream wouldn’t hold up today. He coughed again and spat on the floor, feeling the sickening pain inside and remembering what the doctor had told him about giving up the drink. He’d had a lung removed eighteen months earlier and he should be retired. But the pension on offer was laughable; not enough to keep him in booze, even though he shouldn’t be drinking. But you had to have something to keep you happy, didn’t you? He’d given up smoking . . . and that was all he was going to give up. Couldn’t afford to drink and smoke, these days. Could barely survive on the money he was earning looking after these shite arses, let alone what the Government would let him have for a pension.
Alec drank again, winced away the pain and leaned against the chair back. Something scurried in a corner, but he ignored it. Ship’s rats were worse. Something to worry about . . . but that was when you were at sea. And even though he wanted to pretend, he wasn’t at sea, after all.
FOUR
On Floor 14, the thirty-five members of staff in the north-east branch of Magnus Shipping Inc. were dancing to the music which was coming through the floor from the Chartered Accountants’ office below. Darlene had promised to bring a cassette radio with her, but had forgotten, and she had been apologising profusely ever since for having spoiled the party. Now that the disco downstairs had begun, everything had changed because of the excessive decibels.
Vincent Saville had been working for the same company for twelve years, even before they had moved into this office block. He liked Christmas just as much as the next man, but couldn’t understand why management allowed the younger members of staff (and even the not-so-young members of staff!) to behave in such a way on Christmas Eve. He watched the cavorting that was taking place and sipped at his orange juice. They had cleared the desks and chairs back to create a dance floor, for goodness sake! And the new Senior Partner of the firm, Baker, was standing on the sidelines grinning his head off and encouraging them. This would never have happened in the old days. When the Senior Mr Baker had been alive, he would never have allowed his staff to behave in such a way. In those days, you knew who was boss. None of this ‘new management’ rubbish. The Young Mr Baker had sent him on one such management course, but he had not been seduced by the waffle that they’d spouted. Business was business. There was a regime, after all. And Saville despaired that the old order was crumbling, and with it, his own status and credibility.
He was sure that the Young Mr Baker must be drunk. At 11.00 a.m. that morning, Saville had been dictating a series of shipment letters and, as Baker had passed his desk, he’d said with a smile: Bah humbug, eh?
Now what on earth did that mean?
FIVE
Somewhere outside, somewhere in the night beyond those ceiling-high windows, Alec heard a low grumbling.
“Thunder,” he said aloud, drinking again. He had listened to the weather forecast on breakfast television that morning, and they had promised that things might take a turn for the worse later on. The grumbling sound tailed away, and the sound of that distant thunder again reminded him of days long gone on foreign seas. He strove to recapture the fantasy again, but it obstinately remained at a distance. Even the familiar throbbing of the boilers seemed to be different.
And then Alec suddenly sat up straight, looking intently at the boiler next to him. He rubbed a hand across his mouth and shook his head, just to make sure that the booze wasn’t befogging his senses. But he wasn’t mistaken.
“Shit!”
Alec stood up and looked around.
The thrumming sound from the boilers had stopped. Somehow, they had switched themselves off.
“Shit!” said Alec again, replacing the whisky bottle on his seat and wiping his face again. The last thing he wanted tonight was any hassle with the heating system. Again, he heard that low grumbling somewhere outside that seemed this time to shake the foundations of the building,
But now the boilers Had started again, giving out their familiar throbbing beat.
Alec moved to the others, checking the temperature readings and touching the metal, listening carefully. He hobbled around the room, checking the valves on each. Everything was back to normal again, as if they had never stopped in the first place. He stood for a full minute in the centre of the boiler room looking around, convincing himself that everything was okay. Finally, sighing a massive sigh of relief, he moved back to the chair, picked up his whisky bottle again . . . and took a double-deep draft.
SIX
On Floor 3, the Junior Partner now made the move towards the girl he felt would be his partner for life. The gin and tonics had blinded him to the realities of their incompatibility; only the now of the moment, only the now of Christmas Eve mattered. He had never felt
this way before about anything or anyone. For a dissatisfied man who needed the purity of feeling that only Christmas Eve and too many gin and tonics could bring him, this was the girl for him. And for a girl with too many shattered dreams, yearning for the better life that he might be able to give, she was prepared to ignore her better instincts about the reality of life and warm to his advances.
Now . . . in the stationery cupboard and away from the party, they shared desperate and mistaken passions. But it didn’t matter. Not now. Not on Christmas Eve when everything was good, and real cares a million miles away.
Lightning flickered, casting a reflection of their coupling in the window. Thunder rumbled in the sky. The reflection was gone. Now, only the rain on the window and the wind buffeting the glass.
“Hear that?” he asked.
“Yes . . .”
“Am I making the earth move?”
“Try harder,” she replied.
SEVEN
On the top floor of the office block, the management of the building society which occupied ‘the entire level had decided on a sensible drinks-and-buffet celebration of Christmas Eve. No silly music. There was no need. Just a small collection from the management and staff to provide a bowl of punch; vol-au-vents, crisps and things-on-sticks. But the punch ended up being spiked with two bottles of vodka, and now people wished there was silly music, not just the ghosts of music from other parties echoing up through the air-conditioning shafts.
