by Stephen Laws
Cardiff exchanged a glance with Pearce when they saw the other empty panda cars parked across the way and then they too were out in the storm and heading for their car. When they had climbed in, Cardiff reached for the ignition, paused and looked back at Pearce again.
Pearce knew what the unasked question would be and replied: “Gone, boss. I’m telling you—they’re just not there anymore.”
Into the woodwork, thought Cardiff.
Both cars pulled away from the office block.
For some reason, Cardiff could not get a horrifying image out of his mind; an image that had haunted his dreams since the tragedy that had taken Lisa and Jamie away from him. It was the image of the driver of that car. The image of that terrible blank face; no features, no eyes or mouth. Just a blank mask of flesh. The police had never been able to trace the driver. The car had been stolen earlier on that terrible June day, presumably for a ‘joyride’. Ever since then Cardiff had been haunted by what he’d seen—or what he thought he hadn’t seen. That face seemed to be specially significant to him now for reasons he could not fathom. He tried to shake it from his mind as Lawrence’s panda moved out on to the main road and vanished in a hissing blur of rain.
Cardiff’s ghostly reflection in the side window seemed to leer at him. Shrugging down the feeling that if he looked at the reflection it would turn into that ghastly no-face, he turned to look at Pearce in the driving seat, as he followed Lawrence’s panda.
Evans was sitting in that driving seat. Now he’s gone. Just vanished like the others. What the hell is going on?
On impulse, Cardiff tried the car radio again.
Back on the motorway, heading for the town centre, Sergeant Lawrence’s car radio crackled back into life. ‘
“Panda nine to panda four.”
Lawrence grabbed at the microphone. “Panda four. Come in.”
“Cardiff here, Barry. Right behind you. Now that we’re away from the block, the bloody radio’s working again. Are you receiving, over?”
“Loud and clear, boss. That storm must have been right over us or something. Over.”
“Look, Barry. Get Beaton to hospital as fast as you can. We’re going back to HQ to get everything sorted for a proper operation at Fernley House. After everything that’s happened, I don’t want the place left unattended so I’m having the place cordoned off. Then we’re going back there to find out just what the hell is going on. Got that? Over.”
“Got it all, panda nine. Jack? Just what in hell is going on up there? Over.”
Cardiff had chosen to ignore the question, but his next statement only seemed to confuse Pearce completely.
“Remember Jimmy Devlin, Barry? Small-time crook. Did two years for doing-over a jewellery store in the shopping mall. He’s back out now, I think. Over.”
“Devlin? Yeah. I know him, alright. Hard case. It was Sergeant Pearce who pulled him in for that job. Over.”
“And Pearce and me who got him put away. Think you could find him for me after you’ve got Beaton to hospital and completed your report?”
“Yes, I think I could ‘find him. I know our Jimmy pretty well. I think I know which pub he may be drinking in tonight. Over.”
“Good. When you’ve got him, I want you to bring him back to Fernley House. I’d like to talk to him. Over.”
“On a charge? Over.”
“No charge, Barry.”
“Then he won’t come, boss. Simple as that. Over.”
“It’s important I talk to him. Over.”
“Okay, boss. Leave it to me. Over and out.”
The two cars parted company at a junction. After a while, Pearce turned to Cardiff.
“Devlin?” he asked.
Cardiff didn’t answer.
TWENTY SEVEN
Feeling more than a little foolish but still nevertheless excited in a way that he hadn’t felt for years since becoming a professional cynic, Peters continued to grope his way blindly along what felt like a cold, plaster wall in the darkness.
Moving one hand carefully up and down the wall before him, and with the fingers of the other hand braced against that wall for balance, he moved like a blind man.
He came to a door and felt sure that there must be a light switch somewhere nearby on the wall. He groped eagerly forward and pain stabbed into his skin as he collided with something that fell over with a flat, metallic clatter. Wincing in pain, Peters held his breath, feeling sure that someone must have heard that noise and would be coming to investigate. He exhaled slowly in the darkness, heart hammering. With what could the police charge him? Breaking and entering? Probably. Cardiff wasn’t likely to let him off if he’d already given one warning. On one job recently where Peters had shown up, the bastard really had tried to get him done for obstructing the police in the course of their duties. Excuses, apologies and just plain begging stories raced through Peters’ mind, and it was only after several minutes that he realised: no one was coming. He hadn’t been heard. Breathing out softly in relief, he realised by the sound of it that he was in some kind of confined space. Maybe a cleaners’ room, or a corridor. He fumbled for the handle of a door and found one, but the door was locked. He continued onwards, still groping at the wall, and still unable to see anything in the utter blackness. Another door . . . and this one was also locked. Cursing again, he moved on.
But the third door was unlocked and when he carefully opened it one inch, there was no glimmering of light from beyond. He fumbled around the door and at last found a switch. He flicked it.
A cleaners’ cupboard lay beyond. He could see a stack of cardboard boxes filled with bottles of cleaning fluid and detergents. Looking back, he could also see that he had guessed correctly. He was in a corridor that led off to three doors on either side of him. More cleaning cupboards and storage space, no doubt. With surprise he could see that he hadn’t moved more than thirty feet from the Exit door. It had seemed a great deal further in the dark. There were three large paint tins on the floor, where he’d knocked them over. But they were sealed, and there had been no spillages.
Now he could see the light switch in the corridor wall and couldn’t understand how he’d missed it. Deciding to use the light of the cleaners’ room to guide him, rather than from the corridor, Peters skipped back down the corridor and retrieved one of the paint tins; returning to prop open the cleaners’ room door with it. Turning, he could see a small flight of three concrete stairs leading to a main door at the far end of the corridor. He crept to it and listened at the woodwork for any sign of movement or voices on the other side. There were none.
Carefully, he eased the door open.
Beyond lay a tiled wall and floor. Pushing further, he peered through the slit in the door jamb to see that the main corridor leading away from the reception area lay beyond; the same corridor he had been trying to watch from the workmen’s hut. Rain was pounding against those glass reception windows now, and from where he stood he would be able to see in those windows the reflections of anyone around the corner from him. He could see the reception desk. But there was no sign of anyone there. Had they all gone to search the floors above?
Blast!
It would have been far better if they’d stayed put. Then he could stay where he was and hope to overhear something. After a juicy lowdown, he could have sneaked back the way he’d come and got out of there before anyone knew. He’d have to move.
Peters pushed the door open carefully. Still no sign of anyone. Stepping into the corridor, he eased the door quietly shut behind him and listened again.
Nothing. ‘
On his right, he could see the elevators. Two of them both on the ground floor. Directly opposite to them, and a little farther down on the opposite wall to him were two doors. One marked “Basement” and the other marked “Stairs”. Peters crept across the corridor, aware of the ridiculous fact that he must look like Sylvester the Cat, stalking Tweety Pie. In the centre of the corridor, he caught movement directly on his right and froze on the spot, heart hammering.
It was only his reflection in the reception windows.
Quickly, he reached the door to the stairs, opened it and stepped into the stairwell which Beaton, not too long ago, had ascended. The door was spring-loaded and slapped back quickly. Peters lunged for it, and caught it before crashing echoes could bounce up that stairwell. Slowly, he eased it shut and moved forward to look up the stairs; Somewhere outside, thunder cracked and grumbled. Inside the stairwell, he seemed able to hear the hiss and splatter of rain against an unseen skylight.
This is crazy! I’m bound to be found out.
Peters stayed in the shadows, deliberating his next move. Up the stairs? Waiting for the first sound? What?
Ah, sod it . . .
This was ludicrous. He was the writer of a popular and well-regarded local newspaper column. He was reasonably well off for someone in his profession. Just what the hell did he think he was doing? He was Farley Peters, well, he wasn’t really, not his real name . . . but he certainly wasn’t Dick Tracy.
He had almost decided to slip back into the corridor and make good his escape back the way he had come . . . when he heard the noise..
He paused, with his hand on the door, and listened again.
He could hear the storm somewhere above, venting its anger in the clouds.
He could hear that hissing of rain.
But had he really heard a . . . ?
Help me . . . please . .
A voice? A whispered, pained voice that seemed to be a part of that hissing rain-sound? A voice that echoed sibilantly up the staircase? Peters let the door close quietly again and listened.
Please . . . God in Heaven . . . please . . .
It was a voice.
Peters moved to the bottom of the stairwell again. The voice was Whispered, but seemed to carry a peculiar sibilant force—and it was the sound of someone in agony.
HELP ME!!
The suddenly loud cry of agony and distress made Peters reel back in shock. The echoes of its dying entreaty seemed to shriek to the top of the stairwell and back again. Discarding all notions of stealth, all notions of the sleuth/newshound, all notions of self, Peters lunged to the bottom of the staircase and began to ascend quickly. Innately decent and less the selfish pessimist than he could ever have believed himself, Peters reached the first floor and called out.
“Where are you? Tell me!”
His own voice sounded somehow flat and dead, completely unlike the acoustic effect of the agonised scream he had just heard.
God . . . I’m here . . . here . . . HERE!
The voice was coming from somewhere up above. Maybe the third or fourth floor.
“Hang on! I’m coming . . .” Peters clattered up the staircase, wheezing, the pace of his flight giving him no real time to think what could be happening or what could be wrong.
Please, oh please! I can’t stand it . . .
Peters paused only briefly in his ascent. This was a different voice, surely. The first voice had belonged to a man . . . but this new voice was a woman. But it still contained that peculiar, whispered, echoing quality that was so unlike his own voice when he shouted. And it also contained the same dreadful agony. Peters reached the fourth floor. There was no one on the landing, but he was sure that this was where the voice . . . the voices? . . . had come from.
“Where . . . ?”
IT HURTS! OH SWEET GOD, IT HURRRTS MEEEE!
But now the dreadfully agonised voice seemed to be both below and above him; echoes bouncing like tortured banshees. The pain in that scream filled Peters with an intense horror. He ran to the rail and looked down. He could see nothing on the stairs below or above.
. . . hellllllpppp . . .
This time, the fading voice of the man was coming to him from behind the fourth-floor landing door. He ran to it and flung it wide. There was no one in the main landing. Throwing open the main door leading into the office area, Peters looked down another darkened corridor with offices leading off at either side. He felt sure now that the voice or voices had come from here, despite the nearness ‘of those terrible entreaties in the stairway.
. . . pleassssse . . .
And this time, it was the voice of the woman pleading to him. It had come from somewhere near the bottom of that corridor. It was plain to him that the woman must be dying.
“Wait! Don’t move! I’m here to help you.”
Peters moved quickly down the darkened corridor towards the sound of the voice, breath wheezing in his lungs. As he moved, his shadowed reflection passed by on either side of him in glass partitioned walls.
I don’t want to be here! implored the man’s voice. He was obviously down there with the woman.
“Wait!”
Peters could see movement at the bottom of the corridor now, in the shadows. Surely someone was crouched against a wall there in the shadows, as if in pain. The shadows were darkening as he finally reached the strangely crouched and half-formed shape pressed so closely against the wall.
Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, when the shadow crouched tight in that wall turned its face to see him . . . and smiled its smile of insanity.
It reached out to him from the shadow.
And this time, Peters found the strength to turn and run from the horror which he had been trying to help. Crashing against the partition walls in his desperate plight, he seemed to hear its imploring cries of anguish; then realised that the voice was his own.
Peters burst through the door at the end of the corridor and on to the fourth-floor landing. He reached for the stairway door, and then recoiled from it. The last thing he wanted to do was go back in there again. Because now he realised that there was more than one of the terrible things he’d found. And that the others were probably in the stairway waiting for him.
Something pinged! and Peters turned to see that one of the elevator doors had slid open. Gasping, he hurtled across the landing and into it with such force that the entire cage seemed to shake. He stabbed both hands on the Ground Floor button, eyes still glued to the door at the far end of the landing.
Whimpering, Peters stabbed and stabbed at the button.
The door began to open . . . just as the elevator doors slid shut and masked from sight whatever it was that might be, even now, coming through the landing doors after him. The elevator began to descend. Peters staggered back and braced himself against the far wall, watching the floor panel lights above him move downwards from four . . . to three . . . to two . . . to one.
And then the elevator shuddered and stopped between floors.
Peters began to scream hoarsely for help. If that elevator started to ascend again, and if the doors opened on floor four to reveal what he thought he had seen . . . then he must surely go mad. Frantically, he began to beat against the elevator doors.
The elevator lights went out.
Moaning and sobbing, Peters began once again to feel his way around the wall of the elevator, just as he had done in the pitch-blackness of the corridor downstairs. If this elevator was like the one in his newspaper offices, there was a metal panel just above the lift buttons. Inside that panel would be an emergency light, a telephone and an emergency button. Hand over hand, weeping in terror, he fumbled his way towards where he thought that panel would be.
And put his hands on a face in the darkness.
A face that was somehow almost flush with the wall.
You’ve found me, it said in a liquid-croak of a voice. Thank God, you’ve found me.
Peters screamed aloud and tried to pull away, but the owner of that face had somehow gripped him around both wrists with what seemed to be concrete-hard hands, like manacles.
Come join us, the face in the darkness said . . . and began to pull him back towards it.
Peters screamed and kicked, but could not break free.
At the last, he realised with an insane and desperate terror, that the thing in the elevator wall meant to kiss him. And then
it meant to hold him there until the next lightning strike. Because only with the next lightning strike could he join it.
Much later, the elevator juddered and moved down to the ground floor.
The light in the floor panel above the doors pinged! and the doors slid open.
The elevator was empty.
TWENTY EIGHT
“One more,” said Jimmy Devlin. “And then I’m going home.”
The barman laughed ruefully and lifted Jimmy’s glass from the beer-rinsed bar. He tapped the face of his wristwatch with the bottom of the glass and held it up to him. “Remember what you said? You had to be home by six and you’d give me bother if I didn’t remind you.”
The other three men at the bar began to laugh; a little too loud bearing in mind that they’d all drunk six pints of beer each. Jimmy grinned and ran a hand through dark, cropped hair.
“Just one. Go on, Frank.”
The barman began to refill the glasses, shaking his head. Jimmy was six foot three inches tall; his tallest companion reaching only to his shoulders, explaining the reason that, one foot on the bar rail, he was leaning across the bar itself while they talked.
In the popular vernacular of the area, they were in a workingmen’s club. No fancy spinning lights; no chrome; no brass bar fittings. Just the bar, a few battered chairs and fitted drinking stalls with a threadbare, faded carpet that had seen too much spillage in its time.
Jimmy’s face was almost boyishly handsome for his twenty-three years of age; an effect which was spectacularly ruined by a nose badly broken in a street fight years ago. Jimmy took a deep draft from his fresh pint before rejoining the argument with a carefully chosen and definitively delivered statement: “Bollocks!”
“What?” said the man with the moustache and the cap.
“Bollocks. No such thing as Christmas anymore.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s just been commercialised to hell, hasn’t it? Bloody television adverts just tell everybody what they’re supposed to want. And all this Goodwill crap. That’s a joke, as well. One or two pints of Newcastle Brown Ale in the boozer, a couple of choruses of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on New Year’s Eve—and everybody’s supposed to change in the morning. Everybody’s supposed to be bosom buddies again. Does it happen like that? No—after the booze and the turkey wears off everybody just goes back to being the same selfish, grasping bastards they were before the pubs opened.”
