Darkfall

by Stephen Laws

  The tall man moved quickly back to where the doctor was fumbling with the hypodermic and took it from him. But the woman was moving more quickly now and the blond man moved around to her right. The doctor dodged to her left and was swamped with a feeling of sick horror when he saw that she seemed to be more interested in him than in the blond man.

  “Mrs Parkins, Mrs Parkins . . .” breathed the pink man, still weaving away from the old lady as she advanced jerkily towards him. She was throwing backward glances at the blond man now, but was still intent on following the doctor with a chilling singlemindedness.

  “Come on, Rohmer!” moaned the doctor. “For God’s sake.”

  “What the hell have you done with this damned hypodermic?”

  “I shouldn’t be here. This is Duvall’s job—not mine.”

  “You’ve jammed the hypo . . .”

  “Just get the bloody thing into her!”

  The pink man was holding out one hand towards her as she advanced, and now Eleanor snatched for that hand as if it was some piece of meat proffered to a wild animal on the end of a zookeeper’s pole. Gilbert snatched his hand back and now Eleanor was making a high-pitched keening sound, like some monstrous child deprived of a favourite snack. The whining turned to a mocking laugh and the pink man’s face was a mask of horror as she launched herself at him like a screaming banshee. The pink man slithered away down the wall on to one knee as Eleanor connected with the wall, both hands smacking flat against the tiles, cracking the lamination.

  Rohmer was behind her now, stabbing the hypodermic into the back of her neck and ramming down the plunger. Eleanor shrieked, whirling back from the wall and slashing out at him. Rohmer felt a claw-fingernail gouging a ragged track across his face as he recoiled. Gilbert fell to the cell floor, vision blurred, and saw the old woman twisting and writhing to grab at the hypodermic, which was still imbedded in the back of her neck. Scrabbling backwards away from her, Gilbert heard a brittle snap! as she finally yanked the broken hypodermic free. She began to make that hideous, hysterical, crackling sound of laughter as she held the needle in both claw-like hands, examining it now as if it was some mysterious toy. Now, the old woman was crumpling the hypodermic in her concrete-hard hands as if it was newspaper. Giggling again, she stuffed the broken shards into her mouth and began to chew. Glass and plastic splintered and cracked between those hideous teeth.

  “Want softer food,” she giggled again, and tottered back towards Gilbert—white-powdered, gnarled claws held out towards him.

  “Oh Jesus . . .” said Gilbert as those claws reached down for him. Still on the floor he scrambled away from her.

  “Mrs Parkins,” said Rohmer in a voice that was too calm, and the thing cocked its head to grin at the blond man.

  And then something exploded with a detonating roar in the cell, almost bursting Gilbert’s eardrums. The old woman’s face blew apart in front of him and Gilbert screamed aloud as she fell across his body in a liquid embrace. He struggled to push the monstrosity from his body. Wiping blood from his eyes, he could see Rohmer still looking at the body, with his service automatic weapon still held outwards.

  “Shit,” he said quietly. “That’s another one we’ve lost.”

  Part Two

  Stormbound

  “I have felt the wind of the wing of madness”

  Baudelaire

  .

  ONE

  Jimmy sat in the back seat of the panda car, senses returned. The alcohol inside was now only faintly blurring out the throbbing pain in his jaw. He tried to rub it, and then realised that he was handcuffed to the Police Constable sitting next to him. The Sergeant was driving, and the windscreen wipers were waving crescents of slush away from the glass as they headed on into the teeth of the storm.

  “So I’m arrested, then?” asked Jimmy at last, shaking his handcuffed wrist so that the policeman’s hand also jerked upwards. Simpson angrily jerked their manacled hands down again.

  “Depends,” said Sergeant Lawrence from the driving seat.

  “On what?”

  “On your being a good boy, Jimmy.”

  Simpson blew his nose again, and Jimmy saw with satisfaction from the handkerchief that it was still bleeding.

  “This going to take long, then?”

  “Not long. Maybe an hour at most,” lied Lawrence, not knowing what the hell Cardiff wanted him for anyway.

  “Is that before or after we’ve stopped in some back alley somewhere?”

  “What?”

  “You mean you’re not going to work me over as usual? Not going to pay me back for the bloody nose, even if you did nearly knock my head off?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” mumbled Simpson into his handkerchief.

  “Enough of that!” snapped Lawrence. And then, to Devlin: “You know me better than that, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” said Jimmy grudgingly. “But I wish I could say the same for your superiors.”

  “What’s he mean?” asked Simpson.

  “Never mind,” replied Lawrence.

  Jimmy gave a quiet, derisive laugh. He looked out into the night at the rain-soaked pavement and the ravaged brickwork of empty and derelict factories, as if trying to recognise something. His attention turned back to Lawrence. He looked at the back of his head carefully for a while before speaking again.

  “Two years inside, Sergeant.”

  “You probably deserved it.”

  Jimmy laughed again: “Before that, I had two years’ apprenticeship in the shipyards. Then the shipyards sank without trace, and it was three years on the dole. Suppose I deserved that as well?”

  “Nobody deserves that, Jimmy.”

  “Oh yes, I forgot. You used to be a welder in the yards didn’t you, Sergeant?” Jimmy looked hard at the man who was driving. Simpson could see that they knew each other much better than he’d presumed.

  “Thirteen years, son. But you know all about that.”

  “Maybe I should have joined the force like you. That would have been a laugh, wouldn’t it?”

  “A scream, Jimmy. An absolute scream.”

  Jimmy’s eyes were drawn to the garish reflection of neon on the pavement outside a working-men’s club. He had a fleeting image of a bar, of the people inside, of someone singing Chris Rea’s: ‘Joys of Christmas, Northern Style’, and then it had all flashed by in less than a second. Now they were in darker, dirtier streets. But the fleeting images brought back piercing emotions. And like the slide-show slats of light and darkness that washed into the car from passing streetlights as they sped onwards, those emotions were good and bad by turns.

  He had met Pamela at a club. She was a singer. Not one of those warbling songstresses who made endless rounds of the clubs with an anonymous backing group. Pamela considered herself ‘Solo’, playing her own keyboards and singing cover versions of songs that, to Jimmy, were better than the originals. From the very start, he had been in love with her, following her act around the clubs. Too shy (and now, he smiled at the word shy ever applying to him) to approach her directly in the way that he usually did with women he found attractive. Pamela was special. Deep down, he knew that she would be put off by any direct approach. He had seen others doing that to her in the clubs, and even though he’d felt like stepping in when their attentions were becoming too direct, he had watched her superbly effective ‘put downs’ and stood back in awe. How could he let her think that he was one of them? Eventually, she had noticed him. And it had made him feel big in a way that had nothing to do with macho trappings. She was special—and they had been good together. She had been married before, of course, and he hadn’t been surprised to find out. She had two children: Cathy and Noel, seven and five. Her ex-husband had walked out one day for unspecified reasons, never to be seen again. Jimmy cursed him for a fool and thanked him for standing aside. Pamela and he had been living together for a while and, until recently, Jimmy had been close to a happiness previously denied him; both as lover and as surrogate father.

/>   But things had changed. And the change had been with Pamela, not with him.

  She’d visited him regularly when he was in prison; but he could see as the months went by that whatever that special something they’d had, it was withering away. Pamela had been the reason he’d been put away. She was the one with the debts and money problems; the one who’d suggested the jeweller’s shop job.

  But on his ‘release and return, he knew that the time away had ruined everything.

  And then one day he’d come home early and found her in bed with someone else. The kids had been sent to her mother’s house, and now it seemed that they had a new surrogate father.

  And then he remembered the presents.

  “Where’s the presents?”

  “What presents?” asked Simpson through the bloodied handkerchief.

  “The Christmas presents I bought for the kids. You’ve left them behind in that bloody bar, haven’t you? I should . . .”

  “Calm down.” Lawrence picked up the handset and radioed into central headquarters, asking for a policeman to go back to the club.

  “Bloody idiots,” muttered Jimmy. “If I know that club, they’ll have been stolen by now.”

  “Sue us,” said Lawrence, and the car swerved left off the highway and pulled into the forecourt of Fernley House.

  Jimmy was temporarily blinded by the orange light which suddenly illuminated the car windscreen. The orange light resolved itself into four roadwork lanterns—and then he saw the cordon and roadblock with its black-and-white wooden pole which had been set up ahead, blocking off the entrance road which led up to the office-block frontage and car park. Now he could see a small knot of people in front of that roadblock, dressed in overcoats, caps and hats; attempting, it seemed, to talk their way past half a dozen yellow-anoraked policemen on the other side of that barrier. The huddled knot of men and women saw the car approach and stop. There was an unheard babble of excited conversation and now they were hurrying through the rain towards the car.

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Jimmy.

  And now the first of the small crowd had reached the car. Faces were peering in on them, voices raised above the sound of the rain and the wind. Knuckles were rapping on the car windows, breath steaming the glass. Somewhere, a camera-bulb. flashed and at last he knew who these people were.

  “Bloody press,” muttered Sergeant Lawrence.

  One of the yellow-jacketed policemen elbowed his way to Lawrence’s window. The Sergeant wound down the window, and now they could hear the clamouring questions as he showed the policeman his ID. Ice-chilled air flooded the car.

  “Come on, Sergeant. What’s going on in there?”

  “Is it true that all of the people in there have vanished?”

  “You can’t keep a mass murder quiet for long . . .”

  “Piss off!” said the policeman examining Lawrence’s ID.

  “Can we quote you on that?” asked a white-faced, red-nosed newsman.

  “Look, come on, you’ve got to . . .”

  “We’ve got Jimmy Devlin in the back,” said Lawrence.

  The policeman stuck his head through the opened window and examined Jimmy as if he was some strange zoological specimen.

  “That’s him, is it?” said the policeman unnecessarily.

  Lawrence grunted, and the camera bulb flashed again, immediately answered by a fizzling flash of blue-white electricity in the sky and a rumbling of thunder.

  Too late, Jimmy quickly raised his non-manacled hand in front of his face.

  “We’ll raise the barrier. You can take him straight in.”

  “Whatever’s going on,” said Jimmy in awe, “I didn’t do it.”

  TWO

  By the time that Jimmy had considered making a run for it, it was too late. Hustled through the storm and into the reception area he felt like someone on their way to a firing squad. Chilled and soaked, he was led past the reception desk and the hurried police activity (had there been a murder here? Was that what this was all about?) and into the ante-room/office that was being used as the base for the investigation.

  A gesture from Lawrence, and Simpson had unfastened the handcuffs. For an instant, Jimmy wondered whether he should hurl himself at the plate-glass windows. Then he saw the reflections there of computer equipment, green VDU screens and police personnel. Lawrence pushed forward to another interior office, knocked and pushed the door open.

  Jimmy halted between the two policemen when he saw Cardiff sitting behind a desk, rain pelting against the outside window. The Sergeant and the Constable had continued on for two steps through the door towards their senior officer without realising that they had left Jimmy behind. They started back for him, slightly embarrassed and anxious that he might decide to make a break for it—but there was no need. Jimmy wasn’t going anywhere.

  “You,” said Jimmy, hand held to one side, a crooked smile on his face which contained no humour.

  “Hello Jimmy,” said Cardiff.

  They held each other’s look for a long five seconds. And then the Sergeant nudged Devlin and he walked up to the desk where Cardiff was sitting.

  “Alright, Cardiff. You going to read me my rights?”

  Cardiff leaned forward. “Depends on whether you’re arrested or not, doesn’t it, Jimmy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well as far as I’m concerned you’re just here assisting with enquiries. After we’ve had a talk you’re welcome to go back home to the wife and kids, enjoy your Christmas. On the other hand, if you want to be awkward then we will press charges for assault. I’ll read you your rights, you can make a call and then spend Christmas in the cells.”

  “You’re a bastard, Cardiff. Always were.”

  “Well?”

  “Alright . . . but I’m due home soon.”

  “To wrap up the presents?”

  “Watch your mouth, Cardiff. If I do have to stay in the cells over Christmas I’ll make sure I ruin your wedding tackle before they take me down.”

  “Alright, Jimmy. Alright. Let’s be polite with each other, then.” Cardiff pointed to the seat opposite his desk and Jimmy grudgingly sat down.

  “Want this taped, sir?” asked the Sergeant.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Cardiff replied, eyes still on Jimmy. “Not yet.” Cardiff looked up then at the Constable, still dabbing at a fresh nosebleed with his now-crimson handkerchief. “Better get that nose seen to.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Constable moved to the door. Jimmy watched him, wondering how long it would be before he met up with this guy again on the street. No doubt he thought that there was a debt to be collected there. It had happened to Jimmy before. He was used to it.

  Jimmy turned back to Cardiff. “Okay, I’m here like a good boy. And I’m co-operating. What do you want to know? “

  “July 13th, 1988. Fernley Shopping Centre.”

  “Shit!” Partly in anger, partly in contempt, Jimmy turned away from him again and stared at the outside door, attempting to control his emotions. “So that’s . . .” Jimmy dried up in anger again. Then, calmly: “We went through all of that when it happened, Cardiff. There’s nothing else to say. It’s all . . . what do you call it? . . . part of the official record.”

  Cardiff opened a cardboard file on his desk. “Jimmy Devlin. Andrew MacAndrews, known as Mac. And Donald Flannery. All three with criminal records. On July 13th, 1988 at 11.32 p.m. Devlin was apprehended in the course of robbing a jeweller’s shop in Fernley Shopping Centre . . .”

  “Apprehended?”

  “That’s what it says here.”

  “Bollocks. You and Pearce were in charge that night. And I telephoned your lot when . . . it happened.”

  “Telephoned in a panic. Some kind of garbled nonsense over the phone about something that had happened while you were robbing the place.”

  Jimmy paused, waiting for Cardiff to continue. But Cardiff sat implacably, looking at him.

  “Okay,” Jimmy continued. “So for n
o apparent reason, I ring the cops and tell them to get over to Fernley Shopping Centre because something bad has happened. Because Mac and Flannery are dead . . .”

  “And while you’re getting out of there, you run straight into a patrol car and they arrest you after a chase. It’s only then you say you were the person who telephoned. It was an anonymous call. Remember that part of the story? You left all those parts out, Jimmy.”

  “You stitched me up, you bastard. Stitched me up good and proper.”

  “My heart bleeds for you.”

  “You and your bloody mates fingered me for those three other burglaries. And I didn’t do them. That’s what got me the two years inside, pal. Not the jewellery job.”

  “Poor Jimmy. Victimised by the police.”

  “Look . . . what the hell do you want me here for, Cardiff? I’ve done my time for that job, and the other jobs you laid on me. So what the hell is all this about?”

  “MacAndrews and Flannery.”

  “What . . . you mean they’ve turned up again? But they can’t have done. I saw what happened to them. They must be dead after that . .”

  “No, they’re still missing, Jimmy. I just want you to tell me what happened to them again.”

  “I’ve told you! Told you all then and no one would believe me, so I changed my story.”

  “So tell me again. The original story.”

  “Yeah, well . . . we went over that at the time, didn’t we?”

  “Then you changed your story.”

  “No one believed me, Cardiff. Least of all you. Thought I was copping a plea on . . . diminished responsibility. Trying to get out of a prosecution and into a cosy mental home.”

  “And your accomplices got away—never to be seen again.”

  Jimmy gritted his teeth. Cardiff could see that the knuckles on his right hand were white where he clenched the chair rest. When he spoke again, his voice was bitter and guttural.

  “That’s because they’re dead.”

  “So you say. But where are the bodies? The way we see it, they both did a runner and they’ve been in hiding ever since.”