The Girl in the Empty Room

by Neil Randall

  DO NOT IGNORE – IMPORTANT GOVERMENT INFORMATION

  Dear Householder,

  Please read the following information very carefully.

  Due to the outbreak of a rare and potentially dangerous infection, the town will be closed for the next seventy-two hours. No persons or vehicles will be permitted to leave or enter the town and its environs during this time period. Anyone found violating these conditions will be put under immediate arrest and face prosecution and a heavy fine.

  If any person in this household has had unprotected sexual intercourse, suffered loss of blood, or come into direct contact with anyone else’s blood in the last 21 days they should report immediately to the quarantine zone set up at the local football ground. There they will be tested, monitored, and, if necessary, offered a course of treatment.

  Please do not panic. This is a purely precautionary measure. As the origins of the infection remain unknown, the Local Authority will take any action it sees fit to protect the wider community.

  If anybody has any problems, be it a shortage of food, water or power, or concerns about an elderly, disabled or sick member of the family, please contact the helpline below.

  Helpline: 0800 987987987

  Signed: Councillor G.W. Wilmot

  By Order of North Norfolk District Council

  Dozens of police cars and military vehicles lined the streets leading up to the football ground. Both ends of the road had been cordoned off. Armed troops patrolled the gated entrance, surrounding woodland, and a perimetre wall fitted with reams of barb-wire. Inside the ground stood four portakabin buildings, one for catering, one for medical supplies, the other two makeshift sleeping quarters for military personnel. The huge tent erected on the football pitch itself contained two hundred metal-framed hospital beds, covered with fresh white sheets. In the centre of the tent were temporary bathroom facilities, male and female, plywood huts with a shower unit, two sinks and two toilets.

  For the last two hours, those suspected of carrying the infection had been transported to the quarantine zone. Before being allocated a bed, they had to fill out a comprehensive form.

  “Here,” said Sergeant Harris, a stout, punctilious officer who’d been charged with overseeing the internment. “Fill out this form. When you’ve done so, hand it back to me, and I will allocate you a bed.”

  When Jonathan Reynolds received a form, he rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue.

  “For pity’s sake!” he grumbled. “Not more bloody forms. It’s the –”

  “Silence!” Harris bellowed right into Reynolds’ startled face. “You might be infected with a highly contagious disease, sir. It’s your right and duty to your fellow citizens, therefore, to fill out that form to the best of your abilities.”

  Red-faced, Reynolds skulked off to one of the tables set up by the entrance, sat down, and hurriedly filled out the form.

  By early evening, all beds had been taken – to the right, females, the left, males.

  Aaron Wells found himself situated in between Ray MacArthur and Jonathan Reynolds.

  “So, erm…how come you two ended up in here, then?”

  Still smarting from his reprimand, Reynolds turned his back on the younger man. MacArthur, however, was more than happy to start up a conversation.

  “Stupidity,” he said with a self-deprecatory shrug. “At my age, I should have known better.”

  “What?” Aaron almost whispered, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up. “You had unprotected sex, did you? Or was it something to do with coming into contact with blood?”

  “The former, unfortunately,” said MacArthur. “Ironic, really. Not exactly been the most active of men in the bedroom department over recent years. The one time I have a few drinks and meet a nice-looking young lady, I end up here. Ha!”

  “Yeah.” Aaron stared blankly into space. “I know how you feel. Same thing happened to me. Split up from my long-term girlfriend a while back now – s’pose I never really got over it, and never had much luck meeting anyone else. Then I ran into Jacqueline one night and –”

  “Wait. Did you say Jacqueline?”

  Aaron nodded.

  “Not Jacqueline Franklin?”

  “Yeah. We were, erm…sort’a going out.”

  “Going out!” MacArthur failed to mask his surprise. “But not so long ago I slept with her without any, you know.” He looked around the tent, at the scores of other men lying on their beds, men of different ages, professions, walks of life. “Not to be rude, but I wonder how many other men have been with Jacqueline. Maybe she was going around deliberately infecting people, eh?”

  Aaron knew that was indeed the case, but didn’t say anything else, anything that might put him in an awkward position.

  “Make that three.” Reynolds turned round, having clearly been listening in. “I had a one-night stand with that Jacqueline as well.”

  Now he was sitting directly under the main lights, Aaron recognised him as one of the men Jacqueline had met in the Black Swan, a face he last saw across a busy barroom.

  “Well I never,” said MacArthur. “Quite the gathering of unfortunates, eh? Who’s more foolish, the fool or the fool who follows him?”

  Reynolds saw nothing funny in that, or the situation as a whole.

  “You know what? I think you might be right. I think she deliberately infected us with this, erm…whatever it is. I think she’s a bitter, twisted piece of work, a man-hater, trying to exact revenge for some calculated infidelity.”

  “No she isn’t,” said Aaron. “She’s just been a bit unlucky with men, that’s all.”

  “Unlucky with men!” cried Reynolds. “And what are we, then? – or the other one hundred and ninety-seven people locked up here – the lucky ones! Jesus! I should’ve sensed something wasn’t right with her when we met for a drink. Huh! But I just let my prick do the thinking for me. And I mean, in my own defence, you don’t expect it these days, do you? Attractive young women in their twenties being infected with God knows what. Not surprised she’s gone missing, doesn’t take a modern-day Sherlock Holmes to work out what happened to her, does it?”

  “How’d you mean?” said Aaron.

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Some poor chap, a chap just like us, slept with Jacqueline, contracted the infection, and was so angry, he went around to her house to confront her, and ended up doing something stupid.”

  “What? Like killing her?”

  “Exactly,” said Reynolds. “Least she bloody deserves, ruining people’s lives like this.”

  “She’s hardly ruined anybody’s life, has she?” Aaron argued, feeling as if he had to defend Jacqueline to the last. “For all we know, she might’ve been a victim in all of this – just like us. She might’ve been infected by some bloke.”

  Reynolds flashed Aaron a darting-eyed stare.

  “So you know something, do you?”

  “No. Not really. I’m just saying it might not be her fault.”

  “Tut! Oh, never mind.” Reynolds shrugged, showing weariness for an argument. “Let’s change the subject.” He pointed to Aaron’s arm. “What’s that on your wrist, anyway?”

  Aaron gave a start, as if he’d forgotten about the tattoo Bogdanovic had scraped across his skin.

  “This? Oh, just a bit of body art I got done the other day.” He rolled his sleeve up and gave both Reynolds and MacArthur a better look at the bloodied, beaten pig’s head mounted on a stake. “The bloke who done it is proper talented, reckons the pig is a dead symbolic creature.”

  “Symbolic of what?” spluttered Reynolds. “Wallowing around in its own shit all day?”

  “No.” Aaron ran his fingers protectively across the tattoo. “He told me this story ’bout how this big American gun company bought up some land ’round here, along with hundreds of pigs, and how they slaughtered them all in a field, just to test out this new super bullet. Proper gruesome, it was, in all the papers and on the news at the time.”

  “That’s not a real
-life story,” said Reynolds, “but the plot from a famous film – A Red Sky in Morning, came out five or six years ago, was directed by independent film maker, RB Arthurs, the British Tarrantino, as the press has dubbed him.”

  “You what?” said Aaron. “That was the story the tattoo bloke told me, not some film.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right, erm…what is your name, by the way?” said MacArthur. “I’m Ray.” The three men exchanged names. “We’re going to be here for the next few days so we may as well get acquainted.” He turned back to Aaron. “And yes, Jonathan’s correct – that is the plot from A Red Sky in Morning, winner of the Palm D’or, if I’m not mistaken, bit of a modern classic. So perhaps your tattooist friend was just spinning you a line, trying to get you to buy a certain tattoo.”

  Aaron lowered his eyes. “But he – he told me it symbolised innocence in the face of the capitalist greed machine. He said that it would impress Jac –” hurtling through the air, an Adidas trainer hit Aaron smack across the top of the head. “Hey! Who threw that?”

  All three men swung round to see Anita Jones and Karen Jenkins walking over, stepping in between beds.

  “Remember us?” Anita scowled and put her hands on her hips. “Huh! We’ve just been having a very interesting chat about you, Aaron, comparing notes on how you talked your way into our beds. Funny that – how we both slept with you last week, and how we’re both here now.”

  “But – But we used protection,” he gabbled, still rubbing the side of his head. “So how could –?”

  “That’s what we thought!” Anita interrupted. “Now we’re not so sure. Neither me nor Karen had had sex for ages before last week, ’specially not unprotected. And if both of us have been infected with something it could’ve only come from one person – you!”

  Hearing raised voices, perhaps bored as much as curious, dozens of women walked over from the other side of the tent, falling in behind Anita and Karen. This altered the other men, many of whom shuffled closer or swung round on their beds so they could listen in.

  “You should hear this, girls,” Karen said over her shoulder. “We might just have found the source of the infection, the bloke who started this whole thing off.”

  “Well, in Aaron’s defence” – MacArthur got to his feet – “and as you both just confirmed: he did attempt to use contraception. If the condom fell off or split or something went wrong, the poor young lad can hardly be to blame.”

  “Fell off! Split!” Anita snorted. “Twice in the space of a week! What are the chances of that – zero, I’d say. No. I reckon he did it on purpose.” She jabbed a finger in Aaron’s direction. “I reckon he’s one of those twats who don’t like wearing a condom. I reckon he whipped it off before he got started, just to increase his own pleasure, and in doing so, infected both me and Kaz with some bloody awful disease.”

  “What an arsehole!” one woman behind Anita shouted.

  “Yeah,” said another, flinging a paperback book at Aaron, narrowly missing his head. “It’s that sort of selfish disregard which spreads these things through town.”

  “It’s probably his bloody fault we’re all here.”

  Another projectile, a pound coin, struck Aaron full in the chest.

  “Ladies, please.” MacArthur, still standing, raised his hands defensively. “Calm down. We’re all in the same boat, falling out amongst ourselves, trying to apportion blame to one individual, will do us no good at all.”

  Reynolds shot to his feet.

  “Come on, Ray. Don’t try and reason with the stupid bloody cows. If anything, it’s their sort that got us into this mess, not Aaron. If only they could learn to keep their legs shut, and if they can’t manage that, then at least they could have the decency to keep themselves clean.”

  “Why you arrogant –!” Anita rushed over to confront Reynolds. “It’s bastards like you that ruin young girls’ lives on a daily bloody basis. Why should it always be the woman who carries the condoms, who has to think about protection? It’s you that causes all the problems – men like Aaron Wells, men who can’t keep it in their trousers.”

  “Bollocks!” said Reynolds, his top lip curled in disgust. “You small town girls are nothing but sluts.”

  “Sluts!” Anita lashed out at Reynolds, scratching his cheek with her nails, drawing blood.

  “Ah! You bitch!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and wrestled her to the ground.

  “Get off her!” Karen jumped over a bed, swooped down and beat Reynolds on the back with her fists.

  Sergeant Harris came rushing into the tent.

  “Stop this instant!” he roared. “This is ridiculous!”

  His booming voice brought everyone to their senses. They stopped fighting, got to their feet and moved sheepishly away from each other.

  “Calm down, for goodness sake?” Harris stood there shaking his head. “Each one of you is carrying a serious infection, one which has so far baffled medical experts. In the coming hours, you could well fall seriously ill, be in dire need of medication, proper treatment. This whole quarantine zone has been set up for your benefit, and you see fit to fall out amongst yourselves.”

  “It was them that started it,” said Anita. It was them that –”

  “Silence,” shouted Harris. “Return to your beds, don’t move, talk or interact in any way. Not until the doctors have done their rounds.”

  Ten minutes later, two white-coated physicians entered the tent. In turn, they went from bed to bed asking each internee a few brief questions regarding the state of their health – if they felt okay, did they have a fever or a sore throat, were they subject to any aches or pains, had the genital rash altered in appearance, did they experience any pain when urinating, had they found any blood in their stools?

  “Thank you,” one of the doctors said to Aaron. “In the morning, we’ll come and take your temperature again, and undertake a few more tests, all routine stuff.”

  Afterwards, Sergeant Harris called for quiet.

  “In light of earlier events,” he said, pacing up and down the centre aisle, “we have no other option than to assign armed guards to the tent. In approximately twenty minutes, catering staff will provide you with an evening meal. When you have all finished eating, you will then be escorted to the bathroom facilities to attend to your standard ablutions and bodily functions. After that, you will return to your beds for the night. Although relatively early, we will turn off the lights, to encourage you all to try and get some rest until morning.” He paused significantly. “Any repeat of the earlier violence will result in individuals being locked up in solitary confinement. Anybody who fails to comply with our explicit instructions risks criminal prosecution at the end of the seventy-two-hour quarantine period. Do I make myself understood?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Please, take a seat.” Jason directed the police officers to visitors’ chairs. “I’m happy to help in any way I can, but I’m a bit pushed for time today, so…”

  “No problem, Mr Leach,” said Hepworth. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Now, just to confirm, you’re employed by Mr Babb, aren’t you?”

  Jason hesitated. He knew he had to answer the question, he knew he couldn’t lie, but still hated the idea of mentioning Babb’s name to the police – it felt like he was grassing him up, telling tales, something which could lead to a nasty scene, a beating, a few broken bones, a dreaded date with Mr Machete.

  “Erm, sort of, yeah. In as much as this house is rented to workers from the factory, and that, erm…Mr Babb owns the factory.”

  Hepworth and Priestly exchanged a slightly confused sideways glance.

  “Right, I see,” said the Detective Inspector. “And you’ve not been in post very long, have you? – a matter of a week or two. And the rooms you were kind enough to show us a few minutes ago are all occupied by immigrant workers, in the main, Eastern and Central Europeans?”

  “Well, I’m, erm…not quite sure what you mean by immigrant workers. We
’re all part of Europe now, aren’t we? Way I understood it these girls were desperate for work, desperate to come over here, and the bosses at the factory signed up to some initiative to help ’em. This place is just temporary, somewhere cheap to get ’em settled in the area, before they move onto a proper flat in town or something.”

  “I see, Mr Leach, very worthy, very noble. Now, as you’re probably aware, a body washed up on the beach recently belonging to a young woman of, we believe, Polish origins. So have any of your workers left the house recently, maybe out of the blue, without giving any kind of notice?”

  Even though he’d prepared himself for the question, Jason still took far too long to come up with an answer.

  “Yeah, a couple of, erm…workers from the factory, not been here long, did do a bunk, as it goes.”

  “A couple of workers, you say?”

  “Yeah. Two Polish birds, Katarina and Agna they were called – don’t ask me their surnames, though; couldn’t pronounce ’em for the life of me – just upped and cleared off, good few days back now, didn’t notice at first, on a day off, see, and never thought to check their beds. We run a pretty informal, come and go as you please operation here, so it’s not like I was keeping tabs on ’em or nothing.”

  “And why didn’t you report this to the personnel department at the factory, or to local police, for that matter?”

  “I did,” said Jason. “I called the factory to inform ’em, but, apparently, it’s not that uncommon. Once people get over here and realise it’s not the greatest of jobs, that it’s hard bloody graft, they often try their luck somewhere else, piss off down to London or up to Manchester.”

  “So the young women took all their belongings, then?”

  Again Jason took far too long to answer – he just couldn’t seem to get the words out quick enough.

  “Yeah, yeah, far as I know.”

  “And did you talk to the other girls, their friends here, girls they perhaps confided in, told of their plans?”