Darkfall

by Stephen Laws

  “What about those, then?” said another of Jimmy’s companions, poking with a foot at one of two parcels beside Jimmy’s feet; all wrapped in Christmas paper with plastic bows. Jimmy looked down.

  “Ah, well . . . that’s the kids, isn’t it? Gotta have presents for the kids.”

  “But if you don’t believe in any of this Christmas stuff you wouldn’t buy presents for the kids, would you?”

  Jimmy drank again, wiped his lips and delivered the catchphrase that he always used in a difficult situation and which always got a laugh from his pub mates.

  “Not necessarily.”

  The catchphrase worked again. Jimmy’s friends were still laughing when the club’s double-doors opened and two policemen entered in a flurry of snow, wind and oaths from the other customers in the bar, complaining at the entry of cold winter air.

  Sergeant Lawrence and Constable Simpson shook snow from their uniforms and scanned the bar. The Sergeant spotted Jimmy and nudged his companion. The bar was perceptibly quieter now as the policemen moved towards them; only the sounds of Jimmy’s mates’ laughter, now dying away completely as the two policemen drew level with the bar.

  Jimmy’s companions moved aside, creating a clear space between Jimmy and the new arrivals. Jimmy remained leaning on the bar, lifting the drink to his lips again, face set. He had seen them but refused to acknowledge their presence. There was an air of open contempt.

  “Evening, Mr Devlin,” said the Sergeant.

  Jimmy turned slowly on his elbow and eyed the policemen carefully, sipping at his pint of beer again. The Sergeant looked like a boxer in a uniform. He also looked as if he had seen as much, if not more, street action than Jimmy. Eyebrow scars had all but eliminated those eyebrows. ,

  “Yeah, it’s that alright,” said Jimmy. The Constable shuffled uneasily.

  “We’ve been looking for you tonight, Jimmy,” said Sergeant Lawrence. “This is the fourth pub we’ve tried. You like to move around a lot on Christmas Eve, don’t you?”

  “Shouldn’t you be out there catching rapists and murderers, or something?”

  “Mr Cardiff would like to have a word with you.”

  Jimmy slammed his beer glass down hard on the bar counter with a flat snap! His drinking companions recoiled in alarm at the sound. The beer frothed and slopped over the rim of the glass and the pub became deathly quiet.

  “Now, now, Jimmy,” said Lawrence. “No need for aggro.”

  “Cardiff up to his tricks again, is he?” asked Jimmy. “What does he want to set me up for this time?”

  “All we want . . .”

  “All you want, copper. All you want . . . is a fucking warrant. Right?”

  “Like I said, no need for aggro, Jimmy. We just want to talk.”

  “V/hat’s the charge?”

  “No charge.” L

  “Then you can get lost. The pair of you. Back to Cardiff and tell him from me what he can do, if you haven’t already guessed. He’s not pulling me in on Christmas Eve.”

  “Look, Jimmy . . .” PC Simpson stepped forward and put a hand on Jimmy’s arm. And then he saw something spark in his eyes at that touch; something dangerous . . . and he knew that he had made a mistake. A line had been crossed. He knew that he should react, but couldn’t react fast enough as Jimmy swung away from the bar with a solid, jabbing punch that caught the policeman on the bridge of his nose.

  The Constable’s nose exploded. He blundered backwards into a table, knocking glasses to the floor in a crashing spray of beer. Jimmy snatched his pint glass and smashed it on the bar, ready to use the jagged shard left in his hand if he must, to prevent them taking him away. But the older policeman had been brought up on the same streets as Jimmy. Moving quickly, he pinned Jimmy’s forearm and weapon to the bar with a meaty left hand and jabbed a tight, hard uppercut to Jimmy’s chin. Jimmy sagged instantly and the broken glass fell to the floor in disintegrating, tinkling shards as the Sergeant held him against the bar. Simpson staggered back to the bar with blood streaming from his nose. He seized Jimmy’s left arm, pinioning him backwards over the bar. There was no need. Jimmy was semi-conscious.

  “I . . . see what you mean . . . about Jimmy Devlin,” said the younger man.

  Jimmy was trying to shake his head now, struggling weakly. His drinking companions had shrunk away from the bar.

  “I’m not . . . going in . . . there’s no charge . . .”

  “There is now,” said the Sergeant, pulling him away from the bar. “Assaulting a police officer in the course of his duties.” He shoved Jimmy’s unresisting arm up his back and, with his bleeding companion, frogmarched him across the club to the double-doors.

  “Gotta . . .” said Jimmy, still dazed from the blow to his jaw. “Gotta get home. It’s Christmas Eve, you bastards. The kids are expecting . . . the kids . . .”

  The two policemen bundled Jimmy out into the street and across the frosted pavement to their nearby panda car.

  “. . . the kids . . .”

  The panda car pulled away from the club into the near vertical torrent of sleet, wind and rain.

  Two brightly wrapped Christmas presents remained by the bar rail in the club.

  TWENTY NINE

  She was different . . . and knew it.

  But that change horrified and delighted her by turns as her mind spun and twisted in new ways. She could still not recall who . . . or even what . . . she was, or where she had come from. She still staggered down these unfamiliar streets, bustling with what at times she knew to be late Christmas shoppers, at other times to be strange, alien multitudes that sometimes frightened her . . . and at other times made her feel horribly hungry for something, she knew not what.

  As she blundered along those streets, with the crowds of people parting before her—some of them with looks of disgust or horror on their faces—she was aware that she was soaked and that an icy wind was biting at her face and hands. Sometimes the feeling was bliss, at other times agony. Shades of emotion swept through her like storm clouds; hunger, then fear, then hate, then hunger again. Those emotions seemed mirrored and somehow intimately connected with the blue-black storm clouds that surged in the sky overhead.

  She remembered the back alley, and the young boy who had offered to help her. Nothing before that. She had felt sure that the boy would be able to make sense of what was happening to her. When he had pulled her into the doorway and said those words that made no sense, she had felt a new and uncontrollable impulse surging inside. It was a ravenous, engulfing hunger . . . for something. She could not remember clearly what had happened, other than that she was satisfying that hunger, fulfilling herself in a strange and alien way. Somewhere deep inside her, somewhere deep inside that frightened, lost woman—was another person. A new her. And that new person had taken over completely in the shop doorway, in a way that she could not describe. It was as if she had gone to sleep and let the new her take over. In that sleep, she seemed to hear other, less pleasant noises. Noises that sounded . . . liquid . . . and a faraway, unconnected screaming.

  After the boy had provided the fulfilment that she could not explain, she had woken from the dream to find herself back on the streets again; back amongst the throng. The new her had departed, leaving the old, lost and frightened her behind.

  “Please,” she begged, of no one in particular and everyone in general. “Please help. I don’t know where . . . I’m lost . . .”

  One older man, with a Marks and Spencer’s carrier bag in each hand, stopped in front of her, genuine concern in his eyes. He started to speak, but she held her arms apart in a plea . . . and for some reason the man’s face was now horrorstruck. Pale-faced and trembling, he had uttered an apology and hurried on past her. She watched him go, as he hurriedly bustled into the crowd. Her emotions were changing again. Now she was not only unaware of her whereabouts, but did not even recognise the species of animal which moved past her on all sides as human beings. These things were something else. Something to be hated, something to
be used somehow to appease that hideous appetite. With that rage, came a great sense of strength, the new her surging through her body again. If she lashed out and seized one of them, then . . . things . . . would start to happen. Things that she could not explain but which would only serve to make her stronger still and eventually make sense of this strange dream she found herself in.

  Come on, Eleanor. A voice seemed to be saying in her head. Have another drink. And the sound of that voice swept away the hate and the strength and brought back the fear and the hopelessness of being lost in this nightmare. Knew you were more trendy than I was, Eleanor. Come on, have one of my drinks. Just one more. It’s not as if you have to drive home or anything, is it? Go on . . . it’s Christmas.

  “Help me!” screamed Eleanor into the night. “Come out of my head and help me find my way home!”

  She staggered into the middle of the road.

  Horn blaring, a car swerved to avoid her and rammed head on into another car coming in the opposite direction. Glass flew in a hissing spray. Eleanor whirled untouched in the road as the rammed car mounted the pavement, missing passers-by but ploughing into a Thornton’s Toffee Kabin window. A shroud of broken glass cracked and shivered around it as people leaped and screamed out of the way. The other car slewed to the other side of the road, horn still blaring. It hit the pavement hard and rocked on its suspension, coming to a stop. The car horn continued to blare. Shoppers on either side of the road were screaming.

  And their screaming dispelled Eleanor’s fear again, bringing back the hate and the same ravening hunger that she had experienced with the young man in the back alley.

  She staggered to the rammed car on the pavement next to the Toffee Kabin. Two men were already trying to pull open a car door to rescue the driver, who lay slumped forward over his wheel. There was a dark stain on the windscreen in front of him. Filled with a loathing for those that screamed around her and those that tugged at the far side door, Eleanor reached the other front door and tugged at the handle. The door swung wide, and now Eleanor was climbing into the passenger seat, eyes riveted on the man at the wheel. His eyes were staring downwards, through the spokes of the driving wheel—as if something terribly interesting was happening at his feet. There was a crimson splash on his face, and more of that crimson was dripping thick as Thornton’s toffee from the end of his nose and from his mouth.

  She leaned forward, oblivious of the men on the other side of the driver’s window who looked at her and cried out in disgust: “Oh bloody hell, missus . . . !” as she dipped her fingers greedily into his face and began to bring it to her mouth.

  There was more screaming now, and someone was retching as she pulled the man back from the wheel so that his head was tilting backwards and more easily accessible. She continued to feed that ravenous, terrible hunger. When she had finished here, there would be many more on the streets from which she could get strength when she needed it.

  “Get the hell away from him!” something screamed into her face. She felt the blow on her face, lashed out with the new-found strength and felt a part of the attacker come away in her hand. There was a new shrieking, and the sound of it served to fuel her appetite.

  A long time later, she could hear the screaming become the monotonous, shrill whine of a police siren. But she neither knew what it was or cared as she continued to grow strong.

  THIRTY

  “Seven twenty-one? Here’s a nice little Christmas story for the kids. Seems we’ve got a cannibal on Regent Street.”

  “Say again, thirty-one. A carnival?”

  “That’s cannibal. Know what I mean. Eats people.”

  “Nice try, thirty-one. But this is Christmas. Not April Fools’ Day. Get on with it or clear the line.”

  “No need for temper, twenty-one. Straight up. Car accident on Regent Street. Little old lady covered in blood. Except it’s not hers.”

  “Details please, thirty-one.”

  “Bringing her in under restraint. Medical assistance required. Reason I ‘m ringing is that her name’s on the PNC as missing since . . . here, hang on . . . that’s not right. . .”

  “Say again, thirty-one.”

  “Error on PNC, twenty-one. It says here that Mrs Eleanor Parkins has only been reported as missing for . . . two hours? That can’t be right.”

  “Wait a second. Is that the PNC relay on an incident at Fernley House, Newcastle?”

  “Wait on . . . Yeah . . . that’s it.”

  “No mistake, thirty-one. Address please?”

  “23 Wellingbroke Gardens, Jesmond.”

  “Mrs Eleanor Parkins from main listing of eighty-four persons. Reference 6 5498. Age fifty-four. Married. Two children.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Definitely no mistake. Relay all details through, thirty-one. I’ll have to convey this to Operations Unit at Fernley House.”

  “Reported missing in Newcastle this evening? But we picked her up in London not an hour ago. She got wings or something?”

  “Relay, through, thirty-one. I sense that someone somewhere has made a major cock-up and is in for a hiding from Santa’s little helpers . . .”

  THIRTY ONE

  Cardiff stared at his blue-white reflection in the window. He was in the ante-room/office behind the reception desk of Fernley House and there was nothing to see out there now; no amber lights from passing cars on the motorway, as the ever-building storm had blocked the roads and stopped the traffic. He could see no details of the car park beyond. Just a void of blackness slashed by dirty city rain and slush which was driving with ever-increasing force at the windows. His face looked ghostly and those unbidden thoughts which were so frequent now, came to him again as he looked at that face.

  Is that me? Is that what I’ve become?

  And then, worst of all: Will I look like that when I ‘m dead?

  The image of that faceless man behind the wheel of the car that had killed his family came to him again. He wiped it away and strained to look further around to the right. At last he saw the smudged yellow beacons of the police cordon which had been established in the office forecourt and which blocked off the entrance to the building. On return to Fernley House, Cardiff had taken this office on the ground floor—an area set back-from the main reception area on the left-hand side overlooking the motorway. The full team requested and confirmed by Central Headquarters was somewhat less than ‘full’, but it was Christmas Eve, staff resources were limited and the team would be supplemented as soon as possible.

  Secondary keyholders for the alarms on the various premises in Fernley House had been contacted at last; all the “out of hours” contacts for emergencies such as fires or burglaries. Preliminary and still incomplete lists of staff had been obtained and enquiries so far had revealed what Cardiff had at last begun to suspect. People who worked there, and who had stayed for Christmas parties—had still not arrived home. The car park had been checked, again with great difficulty, as the severity of the storm had increased. A substantial number of licence-plate numbers checked on the Police National Computer had been cross-referenced, confirming that a substantial number of the car owners should—by rights—still be partaking of the Christmas spirit in Fernley House.

  Cardiff stood back from the window and watched the seven main personnel—including Pearce—who formed his Incident Team and (perhaps) Casualty Bureau (if they could find anyone that was), quickly establishing the portable computer terminals in his ‘office’ for linkage with Central Headquarters.

  His team were not happy.

  The storm continued to play havoc with shortwave radio, and now showed signs of interfering with the computer performance and interface. Two of the personnel involved in establishing the Casualty Bureau which would provide information and input/output for members of the families of missing persons were having particular difficulty with a VDU which insisted on giving a crazy paving display rather than the necessary information.

  Arrangements were underway at Headquarters for a
n early police conference for full briefing and debriefing as well as a potential press conference. Already Central Office was considering the release of partial information internally on a strict ‘need to know’ basis—which always rankled within the force. Cardiff hoped that it wouldn’t lead to internal conflict and further breakdown in communications.

  A secondary search of all floors had been undertaken.

  A pathology squad of three officers were even now re-examining the place where the severed hand had been found. Cardiff had still to hear from the police pathologist who had collected the severed hand.

  And very soon now, Cardiff knew, the press would arrive—even though the ferocity of the storm was managing to keep everyone else away.

  The disappearance of the original seven policemen searching the building had not been taken too seriously by’ Central Office. The reaction of Cardiff’s seniors had been typical: Probably found another Christmas party somewhere. But there was no time. He had deliberately downplayed it, even though it was already causing communication difficulties at Central Headquarters. He had also instructed Pearce to play down the ‘noise’ they had heard in the basement until the Incident Team was established. Police technicians had checked over the basement again. They had checked the boilers and boarded up the shattered windows. It had been a lightning strike, pure and simple. A second lightning strike, in fact. The first had shaken Beaton up with the peculiar acoustic effects the strike had caused beneath ground level. Stranger things had happened.

  And yet . . . ?

  The seriousness of the actual vanishings and the discovery of the grisly item on the fourteenth floor seemed to have focused a familiar kind of schizophrenia among the police personnel in the building, a schizophrenia which Cardiff had seen before: the depressed sympathy and total sarcasm which seemed to keep the police going in hazardous or harrowing situations.