“Forget it, it’s fine, mate.”
“That stupid dog’s gotten mud all over you.”
The man whipped his ponytail behind his head with his hand, pulling out a lead and slipping onto the dog’s neck. Fierce droplets hit into them like stray bullets, and the German Shepherd charged down the hill, ripping the lead from his hands.
“Oh, let him go … nobody else is around. That’s a nasty gash to your head. There’s a hospital over the hill. If you like, I can take you.”
Brock carried on down the path, shaking the excess water from his hair. His clothes were soaked right through and his body was becoming numb in the cold. “Trust me, I’ll be fine.”
The man held his hand out, anticipating a handshake. The sleeve on his jumper stretched, revealing a dagger and snake tattoo.
“I’m Sedgwick, by the way. Not seen you up here before.”
Brock held his hand out to shake, glancing at the tattoo. “I don’t come here often. Tell me, where did you get the tattoo?”
“This damn thing … You know, this cut is really deep, you should get medical attention. At least let me dig into my bag and give you a waterproof plaster. Weather like this cannot be doing it any good.”
Sedgwick reached into his bag, pulling out a first aid kit and ripping it open. Brock’s eyes fixated on the tattoo: the same dagger and snake. Without warning, the man rubbed a stinging antiseptic wipe over the cut.
“Hope that didn’t hurt. You remind me of a man attacked down this very path some months ago. Covered in blood from top to bottom. It was a horrible sight. Reckon it’s a sign of the times.”
“You witnessed it?”
“No, this government woman, what’s her name … Lady Ranskill, she found him and phoned for an ambulance. She reckons it kicked off and shit Rawlins right up. Happened over there,” said Sedgwick, pointing.
“Who’s Rawlins?”
“The most arrogant and ignorant pig I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Lady Ranskill always refers to the old bigwig as The Right Honourable Rawlins. He’s the minister of state for security and economic crime. Main security advisor to the prime minister, a go-between. And a completely eccentric idiot, always walking his dog over the heath. Well, until that tall guy appeared on the scene. He’s disappeared since.”
Brock felt as though he was choking. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words refused to leave his mouth.
“Funny thing is, absolutely nothing appeared in the papers whatsoever. Typical. Anyway, my bloody dog’s ran off. Nice meeting you.”
He darted off down the hill. Brock ran after him, trying to force words out of his mouth, but Sedgwick had disappeared into the darkness. A shimmer of moonlight caught the wet stone footpath below Brock’s feet. It was exactly where Sedgwick had pointed, and he stood perfectly still, peering over it. A cold chill went full length down through his entire body. His pulse started to beat faster, but he remembered nothing. He racked his brains, trying to drag anything up, but his memory was annoyingly blank.
Smashing his fist against the bark of a nearby tree, he let out a huge groan, and Sarah flashed into the back of his mind. He wiped over the plaster with his hand, ensuring it was still stuck firmly in place, and stepped out of Hampstead Heath into the soaked main road. Out of the wilderness into the bricked-up lamp-lit city. All was quiet.
Standing at the end of Camden Avenue, he surveyed the street. As he searched for unusual activity, the rain eased and the sun forced itself through the clouds. A man in the passenger seat of a brown Volvo estate was slowly lifting his left arm as though he was communicating over a radio. It was a radio, and he talked into it, keeping perfectly still as though he were keeping a low profile. There’d be more, and Brock stepped into the street at the next row of low-rise apartments. He clambered over a wall and trudged through its neatly laid out garden before jumping into his own. A cool breeze brushed his face as he lay low, peering through his apartment windows, monitoring for any activity. There was none.
He yanked at the kitchen window; it refused to budge. His hands shook as he pulled up a small garden trowel from nearby plant pots, easing it between the frame and pulling at it until the window came free. When he jumped in, he was greeted by wires protruding from sockets. Someone had ripped out the lot. He pulled out a glass from the overhead cupboard and filled it with tap water, taking a swig. Grabbing his rucksack from the kitchen floor, he stuffed cakes and biscuits still intact from the overhead cupboard. He moved slowly over to his secret hiding place, stepping over it.
The floor was smashed in and the laptop missing. His old life was disappearing bit by bit. But they had missed something: something important. His semi-automatic pistol. He grabbed it and paced over to his bedroom. He quickly changed his clothes, stuffing a spare jacket and blue baseball cap into his rucksack, flinging it over his shoulder. All the white sockets had been ripped out and thrown across the floor, and all his belongings seemed to have been moved around. He didn’t care.
A car door slammed outside and he made his way to the kitchen, treading on what appeared to be a wallet. He squatted down, picking it up. It was a black leather wallet, but one he didn’t recognise. Throwing it into his backpack, he pulled himself up to the window and jumped out.
Chapter 12
Brock held tightly to the thick metal rails above. The red double-decker tossed him side to side for nearly an hour on its jam-packed journey to Whitechapel. Rush hour was upon him, and impatient commuters squashed together as the bus jerked into yet another bus stop. Passengers shuffled through the doors, hurtling towards the tiny space where he stood. A woman reached into her handbag, pulling out a purse, opening it, and glancing at its contents. As he watched, it dawned on Brock that he hadn’t looked at the wallet he’d slipped into his rucksack. It had completely slipped his mind after artfully dodging all the police cars to get to where he was now. He shoved his body further into the bus corner, digging his hand into his rucksack for the black leather wallet.
Twenty quid sat neatly in the notes section along with couple of credit cards. Brock ran his fingers across a strange white card. It was like a plastic key card for a building with the words ‘Sphere’ running across the front in bold red letters. He’d never heard of such a place. Pulling out a credit card, he saw the name Sighrus. He chucked everything back into his rucksack, struggling to get his breath. He tipped his head down, touching the base of his blue cap. It covered most of his face, and he wasn’t taking any chances.
A man in a suit stepped near him, and Brock tilted his head forwards, keeping his eyes on the dusty bus floor. The driver hit the brakes and the double-decker came to a sudden halt. The doors opposite flung open. The bus had finally reached Whitechapel, a little before Brock’s destination of Mile End.
He jumped off, surveying the busy main road and then losing himself in the crowd. He stepped into a nearby alleyway. He stood still and the icy wind whistled through it, and he zipped up his black tracksuit to the top. His stomach rumbled and his leg cramped thanks to the long bus journey. Leaning against the wall, he dived into his tracksuit pocket, reaching for the note Audrey had given him. It wasn’t there. He was sure he had slipped it in there that morning, so he checked his other pocket. Empty.
Rubbing his brow, he popped his head out of the passageway and checked the busy street for anything out of the ordinary. Cars and vans filled both sides of the road, their engines rattling at the slow pace of the traffic, but it appeared safe. People darted across the pavement heading for work, and there were several market traders in the distance busy setting up their stalls.
Without the note, Brock didn’t have an address; he was screwed and he knew it. But he wasn’t a man to give up easily, and his curiosity got the better of him. If he was to find out about himself, this was the place—sadly the only place. After that, he could disappear for good. He needed to know.
Another glance up and do
wn the street yielded absolutely nothing, further frustrating his brain. Strange how he was supposed to have played out his early childhood in this area. Surely something should have clicked by now?
Audrey had mentioned it was off the main road, Mile End Road most likely. He headed out of the alleyway weaving, in and out of the bustling crowd along the busy main causeway. Stepping in front of tall buildings, he hid his face from the CCTV cameras hovering over virtually every junction. His gaze caught the Indian stall, the stallholder setting up his piping hot chicken tikka and curries. Naan bread was packed neatly along the stall, and Brock’s stomach murmured at the idea of buying at least a piece to keep him going.
Diving into his rucksack, he pulled out the black wallet. Then he noticed two uniformed police officers heading directly towards him. He threw the wallet back in his back and hurried over to the pedestrian crossing, hitting the button. He stood calm as several students came to join him, along with a woman in her forties and a man in white joggers, dripping in sweat. The police moved closer behind the students, and Brock edged forward into the road. Slow-moving cars filled both lanes and his hand started to tremble uncontrollably.
He clutched his rucksack, ready to grab his pistol. Moments passed and the green man flashed . He dived into the road, all the time staring towards the floor, keeping the students between the police and him. Reaching the other side, he passed a shop full of men’s clothes, and saw the reflection of the two police and the man in the suit turning right. He sped up in the opposite direction, and minutes later the street was quieter and he was out of sight. Deliberately, he leaned over as though picking something up. The police were gone. He was safe.
He headed up the street checking road names. Nothing jogged a single hint of any childhood memory. Had Audrey got this right, or was it a wild goose chase? Even the simplest of street names meant nothing to him. For a lad who had supposedly spent most of his childhood here, it felt so wrong.
At the top of the road, he slipped into a small park and fell onto the grass next to a wilted conifer. He emptied his rucksack and scoured his pockets; hunger pains banged through his stomach like a constant military drumming parade. He ripped open a packet of biscuits and tossed one in his mouth. The note was nowhere to be seen, even after double-checking his pockets and the entirety of the insides of the rucksack. He was on his own, and the sharp pain in his leg and gash in his forehead pounded to every heartbeat. But his obsession and determination to get to the bottom of this inflamed the energy inside him, forcing him to clamber on regardless.
Grey clouds blew above him, and the whole landscape darkened. Droplets of rain splashed into Brock’s worn face, his cut stinging. He was about to scream when it came to him—Grove Road. That’s what Audrey had mentioned in the cafe and written on the note. He just required the number. What’s more, he had passed a Grove Road a few minutes back.
With a sigh of relief, he rammed his belongings into the rucksack, pondering over the leather wallet. A great result on Sighrus perhaps … or perhaps not. Throwing his rucksack onto his shoulders, he headed back in the direction of Grove Road. As he did his usual scan for anything out of place, a distant rumble of thunder roared through the sky. A flash of lightning crackled, brightening up the horizon for a mere second.
Stepping through the rain, he passed many residential brick houses on either side; nothing resembled a children’s home. It had likely closed down or had never even existed. The rain was coming at him harder now, belting his face. Another roar of violent thunder and Brock was soaked through and in urgent need of cover. No cafes appeared on the street, and a metal bus stop over the road appeared the only option. Water dripped down all its sides into mini waterfalls, and he dived underneath it. It offered little cover for a thunderstorm on such a scale, but he spotted a rather large derelict building opposite.
Three floors high, its windows were boarded up and it sat in overgrown grassy land. The worn dull red bricks held it together, but only just. He paused, looking over it for a second as the wind blew the rain into the shelter. Then he darted over to it, jogging down the path and pulling at a loose timber board. When it came away, he eased himself into the dark building.
The stench of rotting wood hit him head-on. He peered out of a gap in the wall. Out of the grey sky, another roar of thunder shook the building, followed by a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating the dark hallway of the derelict building and revealing a wooden staircase. For the first time, Brock got that cold, eerie feeling he’d been there before, and every muscle in his body froze.
Moments passed and another crack of thunder ripped through the sky. He placed his foot on the wooden creaky staircase, pushing himself up on the next step, and the next, finally reaching a landing leading to a dark corridor. Another roar of thunder and Brock caught his breath before stepping blindly into the corridor. A flash of lightning lit up the long corridor; many doors were missing from the rooms either side. As he stepped through the winding hallway, a door that seemed familiar to him was slightly ajar. Carefully, he pushed the creaking door until fully open and he stepped inside. He edged forward and pressed his feet into the floorboards to check they were sound. He could barely make out the old painting strung on the wall in front of him.
He dropped his rucksack on the floor, pulling out a bottle and taking a swig of the water. He changed his clothes to the spare ones in his rucksack. Dryer and warmer, he collapsed to the floor. The events of yesterday and the damp exhausting weather had him dog tired. He rested his head on his rucksack and closed his eyes.
His body felt tight and constricted and freezing cold, as though someone had deliberately turned down the temperature. His head was helplessly stuck, and as he tried to move it forward, fierce pains stabbed both sides of his temple. A brightening flash of light penetrated his eyes, and he tottered forward across a long, dilapidated bridge. An old woman whispered in his ear, “You have got to get out of the box. Get out, Brock!”
A smash across the sky and his eyes flew open as his whole body crashed into a wall. It was the wall of the dark derelict room. He must have been asleep for several hours. He was standing on a rotten floorboard, rubbing his side and head. Nightmare. Brock had never come to terms with this phobia of bridges. It was silly, really. One question he’d always wondered: did I have this phobia before I was attacked or was it a by-product of it? Was it my fault?
Light streamed through the loosely placed timber around the rotten window and missing slates on the roof. The ceiling in another room had all but dropped off and remnants were scattered across the floor. This place was derelict, alright, practically falling down and most likely empty for a very long time. He checked his watch. It was 6 p.m. He’d been out for the count for a good while and had got some well-earned sleep—until that old woman had woken him up. Taking the last swig of water, he placed the bottle on the floor and looked around the room. It was eerily unfamiliar and old, but something bothered him about this room. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.
He pressed paused on the thought as Sarah rushed back into his mind. Memories came flooding back: how they had first met; her first gym class; how she had looked at him; their first kiss; first date. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to go back, find her, check she was doing OK. She’d be due at the yoga evening class. She never missed it. If she was safe, he could disappear.
An urgency came over him to race back and check on her. He had to speak to her. Grabbing his rucksack, he stood up but froze at the sound of glass smashing downstairs. He grabbed his nose to avoid a much-needed sneeze. More glass smashing. Dust blew into his face, and his effort at holding back the sneeze caused a sudden involuntary expulsion of air from his nose and mouth. He let out an almighty sneeze, losing his balance, hitting the rotten floorboards and smashing through the ceiling below. Landing onto an old wooden table, he jumped up quickly, fists at the ready.
A window had fallen through in the room directly above,
probably due to the storm; he was safe. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he gave another almighty sneeze. He dusted himself down and headed out of the building.
Chapter 13
He looked across the square he had passed through practically every day for the last few months. He reminisced about the time he had once grabbed a pizza at the deli opposite and about the regular barneys in the gym with Sergei. He recalled having to keep a low profile from the drug dealers selling behind the black railings of the small enclosure in the park. He meandered in front of the cinema where he had seen several high-profile celebrities getting the red-carpet treatment and where sometimes he killed time before his shift. It was all over now, finished for good.
Pushing the glass door, he wandered inside. His pulse thickened at the notion of coming face to face with Sergei for the final time. Sarah was his only interest now: he had to check she was alright and say his last goodbyes. It would hurt. Whiffs of bacon tricked through the brightly lit unmanned reception—against Sergei’s authoritative protocol, of course, and an indication he probably wasn’t in. Brock pushed himself into the main gym floor, quiet of punters and, at first glance, indeed no staff. It was though the once-bustling gym was falling apart at its seams. Heading across the quiet gym floor, he gazed at the bare equipment and stepped across the polished floor towards the staff room. He came face to face with Gunner, who was stuffing a greasy bacon butty into his mouth.
“Where have you been?” Gunner sneezed remnants of the sandwich across the floor, wiping his face on his arm, his eyes wide. “Sergei sacked you. He’s got a replacement. I’ve been worried about you.”
“I, err …”
“Police have been looking for you. They came this morning. Brock, you look like shit.”
Brock rubbed his forehead and straightened his jacket. “Is Sarah about?”
“The class got cancelled. I don’t recall seeing her, but Lacy was on the rowing machine earlier. No doubt Sarah will be joined to her hip somewhere. This creepy tall man came in earlier sniffing around. I didn’t like him one bit.”
Brock Steele Sphere Page 7
