Darkfall

by Stephen Laws

  “For two years?”

  “They both had form, Jimmy. More form than you. And there were other reasons why we wanted those two. Other jobs they’d pulled off over the years that we can nail them for.”

  “Like the way you nailed me? I did two years on account of you, Cardiff.”

  “An innocent man, eh? So you’re not a thief, then?”

  “Look, Cardiff. We were robbing that jeweller’s. No use denying that. Then that . . . that thing happened. And they were both killed, whatever you say. I telephoned you. Me! Now what the bloody hell would I have done something like that for unless something bad had happened? We could have just done the place over and that would have been that. We’d got past the security and into the shop for the stuff. Believe me, it was an easy job. We were ready to do a bunk. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  Jimmy was silent for a while, and Cardiff could see that he was reappraising the situation. Finally, he spoke again: “Look, Cardiff. It was dark. There was a storm that night. Just like tonight. Lights and shadows. I don’t know. Maybe I did see things. Maybe what I thought I saw happen to them both didn’t really happen at all.”

  Jimmy’s words seemed to stick and hold inside Cardiff’s mind. There was a storm that night. just like tonight. “So tell me again. What happened to MacAndrews and Flannery?”

  “They . . .”

  From somewhere outside came the sounds of some kind of commotion; raised voices and the clattering of a glass door. The interview room door opened again and Sergeant Lawrence poked his head around the corner.

  “Sir . . . ?”

  The sound of raised, angry voices was louder.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asked Cardiff.

  “I think you’d better come, sir. We’ve got visitors.”

  Cursing, Cardiff rose from his seat as PC Simpson entered the room again.

  “What about me?” asked Jimmy in exasperation.

  “You just stay,” said Cardiff. “Keep an eye on him, Simpson.”

  The Police Constable with the bloodied nose blew into his handkerchief, glaring at Jimmy as Cardiff left the room with Lawrence.

  Jimmy smiled at him, lounging back into his chair and crossing his hands on his belly.

  “You would have used that broken pint glass on me, wouldn’t you?” said Simpson.

  “No . . .” replied Jimmy. “I’m just a big noise, that’s all. But I dare say you won’t believe that. So what the hell, eh?”

  “Not all police are bastards.”

  Jimmy smiled.

  “So what’s Santa bringing you this year, then?” he asked. Simpson grimaced, and blew his nose again.

  THREE

  Cardiff reached the corridor leading to the reception area and saw the source of the disturbance immediately.

  A tall blond man wearing a greatcoat was standing by the glass reception doors, stroking rain and slush from his sleeves. Pearce was standing in front of him, talking angrily and pointing to those doors as two other men began to push clumsily inside, admitting a gale of icy air that even Cardiff could feel from his position. The men were carrying large metal cases of some kind, like metallic suitcases, and Cardiff heard Pearce exclaim . . .

  “Who the hell are these people?”

  . . . as the blond man continued to brush the rain from his coat, seeming to ignore Pearce completely. A yellow-jacketed police constable—one of the men at the security barrier—followed sheepishly behind the two men with the cases as they moved into the reception area. Pearce rounded on him fiercely and the policeman held his arms wide in supplication.

  Cardiff strode down the corridor towards them, followed by Lawrence.

  The outside door banged open again and a fourth stranger, also wearing a greatcoat, pushed inside and squeezed past Pearce and the Constable.

  “And who the hell is that?” demanded Pearce of the Police Constable. “That thing outside . . . the thing you’re supposed to be supervising, in case you didn’t know . . ; is a security cordon. But for all the bloody good it’s doing it might as well not be there!”

  “They had ID, sir,” said the Police Constable weakly. “They’re men from . . .”

  “I don’t care if they’re the Men from Uncle, you should be keeping everyone . . .”

  “It’s okay, Pearce,” said Cardiff as he strode to meet them.

  The blond man looked up at last—and his eyes latched on to Cardiff.

  Something seemed to happen then.

  Something that Cardiff could not explain, but which had a peculiar clarity and depth which shook him. Because he seemed to feel the question emanating from this tall blond stranger’s icy-blue eyes.

  Is it you?

  Outside, lightning flickered and lit up the glass reception doors. The crack and hollow booming of the thunder rattled the panes. And Cardiff seemed to hear that unspoken question again:

  Is it you?

  Cardiff retained eye contact with the blond man as he drew level.

  When the stranger spoke, it was in a perfectly modulated and even tone. Cardiff was now somehow not surprised to find that the sound of the man’s voice was familiar—even though they had never met before.

  “My name’s Rohmer.”

  He brushed more snow from his sleeve and gave a curious half-smile.

  “I’m from D21. And these are my men.” Rohmer brought out an ID card and showed it to Cardiff. Cardiff had seen similar identification only four times in his professional life. On each occasion, it had meant that the operation on which he was engaged would soon be taken out of his hands. “The man behind me here is Duvall.” The other man in the greatcoat gave a perfunctory flip of his ID wallet. He had short, black hair with a brutally regimented parting and a somewhat effete face that failed to conceal an undeniably hard and no-nonsense efficiency.

  Pearce appeared on Cardiff’s left. “Sorry, sir. They should have been stopped at the block . . .”

  “Never mind.” Cardiff looked over to where the other two strangers were laying their metal suitcases carefully down in the main reception area under the watchful eye of Pearce’s men. The yellow-jacketed policeman shuffled uneasily from foot to foot, uncertain of what they should be doing now.

  “And the other two?” asked Cardiff.

  “Gilbert and Frye. They’re . . . scientists.” Rohmer turned away from Cardiff and began to walk over to them. There were too many questions. It was too soon for the operation to be taken away from Cardiff before he found out just what was going on in this hellish office block.

  “Rohmer?”

  The blond man turned back.

  “That’s not enough.”

  Rohmer smiled that half—smile again and returned.

  “You’ll have been given a directive from D21?”

  ‘No.”

  Rohmer paused again, as if weighing Cardiff up. Thunder grumbled somewhere in the sky again and rain hissed at the windows.

  “Top security clearance from your Central HQ? We have a code name for our operation.”

  Cardiff shook his head, and this time the half-humour in Rohmer’s eyes had gone. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh and clipped.

  “Darkfall.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Cardiff, seeing from the corner of his eye that Pearce was looking at him quizzically. Darkfall. The word on the computer screen just before the message broke up.

  “That’s not possible,” continued Rohmer. “You must have received instructions.”

  “This storm has knocked out the telephones. Our radios are screwed up.” From the reception area, the other two newcomers looked up sharply.

  “And your computer link?”

  “The messages are scrambled. Like I said—the storm.” Rohmer smiled again, and this time it was as if he’d just heard the best news of the evening. One of the other newcomers was hurrying over.

  “Then I suggest you send one of your people back to HQ and receive your orders by hand.”

  “I�
��ve done that. We’re waiting.”

  Cardiff watched the other newcomer’s hurried approach. The man was slight, with stooped shoulders, a pink face and thick spectacles that magnified his eyes, making the sockets look like deep pits in his skull. He was plastering wet threads of hair over a balding pate, and there was a look of alarm in those magnified eyes.

  “Telephones and radio out?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Rohmer, without taking his eyes from Cardiff.

  “And you . . . you said the computer messages were . . .”

  “Scrambled,” finished Rohmer for him. “That’s what the man said.”

  “Look, Rohmer. We were advised . . .”

  “Check with Frye.”

  “If what he says is true, this can’t be residual weather effects.”

  “We took readings beforehand, didn’t we?”

  “Well, yes . . .”

  “And Frye is taking readings now, isn’t he?”

  “They’re negative,” said the man from the reception area. Cardiff looked back to see that the other man had opened one of the metallic cases and taken out what seemed to be earphones, which he was now wearing. The metal case was a portable computer.

  “The readings are all negative.”

  “You see, Gilbert? Nothing to worry about.”

  “Maybe you can start telling me what this is all about, Rohmer?” said Cardiff. “We’re in the middle of an investigation and, quite frankly, we don’t want anyone from Central HQ getting in the way.”

  “We’re part of your investigation now.”

  “Explain.”

  “For the time being you’re still in charge, Cardiff. We’ll be conducting a series of scientific tests—quite separately from your own forensic people. When you do get your orders back from HQ, you’ll see that you’re to withdraw your people and leave everything to us. For the time being you will retain hands-on responsibility for the operation but afford us any assistance we require. No questions, no hindrance. Just allow us to continue.”

  “No questions, no hindrance?”

  “That’s right. Your new orders will also confirm that I am to assume overall charge of the investigation. We represent the preliminary research team. Another unit of Central Government operatives and forensics are already on their way here to replace your people.”

  “Not good enough, Rohmer.”

  “For the time being, you’re to carry on as normal.”

  “Still not good enough.”

  Rohmer half-smiled again.

  “I’ve only your word,” continued Cardiff. “That’s not good enough. If you do want assistance, and no hindrance, then you’ll have to answer some questions.”

  “You could be in serious trouble, Cardiff. These instructions . . .”

  “When they arrive.”

  “As you say, when these instructions arrive, you’ll find that they come from the very top. I don’t believe that any obstruction on your behalf at this stage will be looked on kindly.”

  “Let me put it another way. Answer some questions . . . or else I’ll make my own arrangements.”

  “And what arrangements would they be?” smiled Rohmer.

  “I’ll have you thrown out into the fucking snow until my new orders arrive.”

  “Gilbert!” The man with the headphones was beckoning urgently. Gilbert turned and scurried back to him.

  “Then it seems we’re at an impasse until . . .” began Rohmer.

  And then the screaming began.

  Cardiff spun around in shock, seeing all of the others reacting in exactly the same way, as the hideous, agonised cacophony echoed and reverberated around them. It was a deafening chorus of human agony; a shrieking cacophony of men and women’s voices, dozens—perhaps hundreds of them—all wailing and shrieking in mortal torment. .

  But there was no one to be seen.

  Cardiff whirled, searching the corridor and the surrounding area, as the screaming continued. It seemed to be coming from everywhere—and nowhere—at once. But the dreadfulness of the sounds was intensified by the horrifying nearness of those agonised voices. Cardiff ran to the glass doors, wiped the moisture from the pane and looked out into the night at the blurred orange glow of the traffic cordon—but could see nothing else. Pearce moved quickly behind the reception desk and flung open the door. Beyond, the computer personnel were looking around in horror, some with hands over their ears as the screaming went on and on.

  Cardiff swung back into the lobby. Only Rohmer appeared to remain unmoved by the hideous cacophony as Cardiff strode hurriedly past him. The Operations Room door banged open again and Simpson burst out into the reception area, with Jimmy Devlin close behind him.

  “What the hell . . . ?” said Simpson, gazing around in shock and horror.

  They were the first words spoken since the horrifying,’ shrieking tumult had begun and the word registered strongly with Cardiff for those shrieking, howling, tormented voices indeed sounded like a horde of the damned from Hell. Someone, somewhere had opened a door into Hades—and they were hearing the torment of the damned.

  “Where is it coming from?” shouted Pearce over the cacophony.

  Oh God help me. GOD HELP ME, wailed one voice louder than the rest. IT HURRRTTSS!

  Thunder crashed in the sky, and Cardiff felt the vibrations in his feet. And then he heard something else which utterly horrified him. Another voice, another man’s voice rose louder in agony from the dreadful screaming and echoed plainly in the reception area.

  Help me! Help me! HELP ME, CARDIFF!

  It was a voice that he recognised.

  The shock was redoubled when Cardiff recognised yet another voice in that bedlam of torment.

  Let me go! LET ME OUT! LET MEEEE . . .

  And then thunder crashed again, its impact slamming shut that door into Hell. The voices were abruptly cut off.

  Everyone remained frozen in their positions, looking at each other, waiting for the hellish sounds to begin again.

  Now, Cardiff could hear a hubbub coming from the Operations Room behind the reception area as people emerged from their shocked silence. Through the open door he could see the computer personnel; some with hands still over their ears, others looking around at the walls and ceiling.

  “Everyone okay in there, Simpson?”

  “Yes . . . yes . . .” replied the Constable. “I think so, but . . .”

  “My God, Jack,” said Sergeant Lawrence. “What was it?”

  Everyone was coming out of it now. Pearce moved quickly to join Cardiff.

  “Well?” shouted Jimmy. “What the hell was that?” as he tried to push past Simpson and into the lobby. Simpson tried his best to restrain him. His nose was bleeding again.

  “Devlin!” snapped Cardiff. “Behave yourself if you want to go home.”

  Rohmer turned quickly and looked in Jimmy’s direction.

  “Devlin,” he said in wonder, under his breath.

  Pearce took Cardiff by the sleeve. There was a wildness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

  “One of them called your name,” he said.

  “I know . . .”

  And now Rohmer and Gilbert were beside them. “You know who it was?” asked Rohmer in that quiet, modulated voice. Cardiff turned to see that Rohmer was the only one apparently unaffected by what they’d all just heard. Unruffled, his face was now a mask of deep interest.

  “Yes,” said Cardiff. “The one who called me by name was Evans, my driver—one of the police constables who went missing earlier. The other was Farley Peters—a journalist.”

  “You mean you’ve had more disappearances?” gasped Gilbert. His face was wet with perspiration, and there was fear on that face. Cardiff saw that he was wearing gloves and that he was pulling at them nervously, as if afraid that they might come off. “I mean . . . since the initial disappearance?”

  And then it occurred to Cardiff: “Oh Christ. The forensic people upstairs. They’re looking at the same place where . . .”
>
  Pearce rushed to the elevator.

  “Someone’s coming down.”

  Cardiff pushed past Rohmer and Gilbert to join him, and they both watched as the elevator light above the main double-doors began to descend from fourteen.

  . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .

  And behind him, Cardiff listened to Rohmer and Gilbert speaking sotto voce.

  “Frye had a reading,” said Gilbert in his cracked voice. “Just briefly, before those . . . noises . . . began. It’s stopped now. But it could have been a strike. Couldn’t it, Rohmer?”

  . . . six . . . five . . . four . . .

  “Rohmer,” continued Gilbert. “Were you lying? It’s still happening, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not. We’re quite safe.”

  . . . three . . . two . . .

  “But what if we get a Returner?”

  “That’s what Duvall’s for.”

  Cardiff turned to see Duvall loosening his overcoat slowly as he moved to draw level behind them as they watched the elevator doors.

  . . . one . . . Ground . . .

  “Stand away from the elevators, please,” said Duvall. It was the first time that he had spoken. His voice was cultured Oxbridge, and the grim intent in that voice made Cardiff and Pearce stand obediently aside. Something like resentment was beginning to swell in Cardiff; a resentment that he was now doing as he was told by these newcomers—these newcomers who seemed to have more answers than he did for whatever in hell was going on here.

  “What the hell are you . . . ?” began Cardiff, and then he saw Duvall reaching into his overcoat pocket, sensing his tension as the elevator light pinged! and the double-doors slid open.

  “Christ, look out!” shouted Pearce as a figure blundered out of the elevator. Cardiff elbowed Duvall aside when he recognised that figure immediately. It was one of the laboratory people: Edgar.

  “Those noises!” gasped Edgar as he reeled into the corridor.

  Duvall untensed, standing aside as the three other members of the forensic team blundered out into the corridor. Now, resentment exploded in Cardiff as he rounded on Rohmer.

  “What the hell is wrong with you people? What were you expecting?” Rohmer remained silent.