The Private Life of Elder Things

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  We leave Barker to his little slice of heaven and cross to the main building. Barker’s eyes were on me all the way as we left him. It’s nice to be loved, isn’t it? Not-Quite doesn’t bother to fill me in, and I’m in no hurry to be filled, so that’s where we leave it.

  It’s bigger on the inside. I’m pretty sure of that.

  That’s the thing with big buildings, isn’t it? Especially if you don’t know them very well. At least with a hotel, say, if you’re on the fourth floor, room 414, you can be pretty sure that room 314 looks a lot like it, and the corridor’s the same, and so’s the carpet. A place like this, though, older than old, with addition after addition built onto its central mass like extra chambers in an ant mound, you couldn’t be sure that turning right down this particular corridor would put you in the kitchen for a brew-up, or in the office, or somewhere else again.

  It didn’t help that the electrics were as wonky as fuck. I mean, if you’re standing at one end of the corridor, with a light switch close to hand, and at the other end there’s another switch, you’re justified in thinking that the two switches operate the same set of lights, aren’t you? And that those lights are in the corridor you want to traverse? No chance. I was only in the place a few days, and I never really mastered the set-up, but I think you’d need a PhD in bloody stupidity to make sense of it. Again, one of the perils of decade after decade of incremental changes, until what probably was a sensible design to begin with becomes an electrician’s nightmare.

  “This is the older part of the building,” says Not-Quite, as he leads me through some grand hall or other. God knows what it was originally. The arty blokes were using it as a regimental museum now. Me, I’d have put the silverware somewhere a bit less tempting, but I suppose if you have command over three battalion worth of light cannon you stop thinking some council estate chancer with a brick and a sack is much of a threat. Or maybe they just forgot it was there.

  “How much older?”

  “Oh, several centuries. The original building dates to the reign of James the First, but there’s precious little left of that, now. This bit’s a little more modern, probably 1760 or thereabouts, though there’s no way to be certain. What records we did have went up in the Blitz, and as you can imagine the TA isn’t that keen on exploratory archaeology. There’s our esteemed founder on the wall there, if you’re interested.”

  The pic was of some plonker in his best Biggles costume, complete with what I took to be a Sopwith Camel, though it could as easily have been a Concorde for all I know about planes.

  “Died young, poor chap. Left us the place in his will. This is back when we had the money to keep it up, you understand, or at least keep it vertical rather than horizontal.”

  By now we were headed to the stairs, and from there to the part I was most interested in. The digs were perfect from our point of view. The targets couldn’t twitch without us knowing about it. Not-Quite helpfully pointed out that the nearest crapper was well past its sell-by, so unless we wanted to use buckets – an option Not-Quite put to me in all seriousness, God help him – we had to go down a level, along a bit, and then some stairs. However there was a place nearer than that we could use for a canteen, even if the cupboards hadn’t been cleaned since the War.

  “This will do nicely,” says I. “Where do you keep the rat traps?”

  Not-Quite twitched as if I’d goosed him.

  “Ah. Not on site, I’m sorry to say. I mean, it’s not the kind of thing we keep on site, if you follow me.”

  Now, I’m no girly girl, but I don’t much like the prospect of Mickey’s fucked-up cousin Bob paying me a visit in the wee small. And judging by what I was seeing, it was a sure bet Bob was familiar with the premises, and would become more familiar if we started leaving food about, as doubtless we would.

  “Not to worry. I’ll bring in some when my team come back with the gear.”

  Not-Quite’s face lengthened.

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s just … it’s Barker, you see. He’s not very happy about this and I’m just concerned … that is, it’s not his place to interfere, I quite understand that, but Barker’s been here a long time and he’ll be here a few years yet, so I really don’t like to upset him if I can avoid it.”

  “Don’t you worry, sir.” I patted Not-Quite on the shoulder. “We’ll use the humane ones. No fuss, no muss.”

  Like I gave a hairy shit.

  *

  Now I suppose it’s time to mention the other members of the crew. You don’t need to worry about the day shift: they don’t enter the picture. On nights, it was me, PC Gordon and PC Phillips, on rotation.

  You won’t see Gordon again. If you do see Phillips, check the eyes. I’m pretty sure you can tell by the eyes.

  Gordon’s one of those blokes who never takes a drink, never takes a crafty fag break, and always, always, always, complains that, as a nice guy, women don’t give him the time of bloody day. No jacket, though if we were splitting hairs he’s come close to a sexual harassment charge once or twice. There’s nothing really bad about him, to be honest, but he’s not my cup of tea.

  Phillips is the kind of bloke you’d like to see promoted one day, if he doesn’t screw himself first. Good job he’s not a criminal, or he’d clean out the district and leave my boss in tears. He seems to sniff out all the angles ahead of time, and plans accordingly; if he ever did top someone, which I would not put past him, it’d be a stone cold whodunit with no clues or witnesses. For whatever reason, he and Gordon got on like a house on fire.

  *

  First two nights pass without any incident. Our reports were dead boring, to be honest, but at least the targets weren’t doing anything unexpected. They were being so obliging that, I reckoned, we wouldn’t be long on this nest at all. Small mercies.

  In fact, it was just long enough to get jaded, so I was not surprised when I arrived one night to find nobody in observation. The two tits had wandered off, probably to the makeshift canteen, so off I go like a good sergeant, hoping to wring their little necks.

  I find Gordon sat there with his tea in his hand and his feet well off the floor, the prat.

  “Bloody big one, sarge,” says he. “Ran right across the floor in front of me, like. Made me jump, I can tell you. Phillips gone for the traps.”

  “You’re telling me, you idiot, that you’re doing the dance of the seven veils over one little mouse?”

  “Rat, sarge. Big as a bloody cat, I swear.”

  Just at that moment we hear him. Well, I say him but it was more like them. You ever heard it? We hardly ever think about it, how close they are to us all the time, I mean, but in those big houses, with those hollow walls, you can really hear them. Pitter patter, pitter patter, all in one quick movement. Bob does not slow down. When he wants to go somewhere, he moves rapid, and when he stops, he stops dead. Then, when he’s satisfied, he moves on again. Pitter patter, pitter pat, and that odd dragging sound … you guess is its tail following it along the floor. That, and its piss trail. Little fuckers.

  “See what I mean?”

  I take a deep breath. “Gordo, you want to get yourself back on post, you hear? Get.”

  Which he does, and I go looking for Phillips, because it shouldn’t have taken him five minutes to find those traps. Less, in fact, since I put them in the cupboard right by that plonker Gordo’s head, where they should still be.

  Remember what I said before, about how confusing the building could be? It was even worse at night. The place felt like one great jumble, dipped in darkness, and you had no more idea of where you were than the Man in the Moon. But more by luck than judgement, I find Phillips, who had heartlessly abandoned his colleague in his time of crisis and gone looking for trouble.

  Phillips was in the museum, and while he might have gone there for a dekko at the silverware and the like, that’s not what had his interest and attention when I found him. No, he was much more interested in a pile of clothing that had been abandoned on the floo
r.

  “Here, sarge,” he says, and he points at what looks like a mask. “Get a look.”

  I examine it. I was expecting rubber, but that’s not what it was. I don’t know what it was, truth be told. I put on gloves to pick it up. It felt like, I don’t know, candle wax, maybe, but soft, and flexible.

  “I think I’ve seen that face,” I muse. “In fact, I’m bloody sure I have.”

  “Bit early for Halloween, eh?”

  “Not by that much. Anyway, what the hell are you doing here? Leaving your fellow officer in the lurch, shame on you. Anyone would think he deserved it.”

  “I was looking for the rat traps, sarge.” He gives me that little-boy grin.

  “And you didn’t think to look in the cupboard where I put them?” Heavy sarcasm, but needs must.

  “Of course I did, but they weren’t there.”

  That got me. “What do you mean, not there? You looked all around, right?”

  “Yes, sarge. I checked every cupboard up there, but someone’s nicked ’em. I figure it was day shift having a laugh.”

  It could have been, sure. I wouldn’t put it past them, but right about then I remembered where I had seen that face before. Angry, red, lots of arm waving. It was Barker, to the life.

  Now, at that point I do not leap to any bloody silly conclusions. I definitely did not conclude that someone was having a laugh and walking around in a caretaker suit of his very own. But it did occur to me that Barker, miserable old sod that he was, might well have stolen our gear, out of spite if for no other reason. I’d made a point of staying out of the geezer’s way, but the few times our paths had crossed since Not-Quite had introduced us, Barker had given me the evil eye. I hadn’t bothered to respond in kind, since he wasn’t worth it, but if I could catch him in the act I’d have his bosses tear him a new one. Or so I promised myself, anyway.

  “You go up. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  It was a pretty neat little suit, actually. The clothes weren’t Barker’s, or at least they weren’t clothes I remembered him wearing, but they were about the right size and, as I say, the mask was dead on. Enough to make me shiver a little, if I’m being honest. No identifying marks, of course, and nothing in the pockets. Boots were worn, but not broken down, and they were military issue.

  I’d brought a duffel bag with me, for my spare kit, and there were evidence bags in it. I put the mask in one and took it away. I figured I could at least find out what it was made of, and if it happened to belong to Barker, and he wanted it back, tough titty. He would have to make nice, first.

  *

  So of course the very next day I get a call from Not-Quite, who’s very apologetic and doesn’t want to cause a fuss, goodness knows, but he’s just had an earful from your friend and mine. Former RSM Barker has in fact been quite eloquent on the subject of things being nicked, and how dare they, and what’s the world coming to, and so forth.

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about, sir,” says I. “Did he mention anything specifically?”

  No, of course he didn’t. In fact, Not-Quite is rather puzzled on that score as well.

  “Well, I’ll go and have a word, shall I?”

  Not-Quite’s a bit anxious, but he agrees. I found out later that he also went to see the TAC himself, perhaps thinking that the Regimental silver had gone walkies. But that’s by-the-by.

  Off I go, and I’m knocking on Barker’s door. This is just before day shift’s due to wander off to the pub. It’s a nice area up there, really. You forget how close London is to the country in places like that, until nightfall, when the birds settle in, the sun dips low, and everyone puts on the telly and has a cup of tea.

  Barker’s not answering, so I wallop the wood a few more times. Then, narked, I figured I’d do a walk-round, see if he was hiding in the back garden or something. Not only is he not there, but I get a look in the windows as well, and it doesn’t look as if he’s been here for a while. The place is a bit of a pigsty, frankly, which surprises me, since from the outside you’d think Barker was a neat freak. I push on the back door, and it opens, so in I go. After all, the man might have been lying hurt in one of the back rooms or something. I don’t bloody think.

  “Mister Barker? You about?”

  Not a sound, and up close, the place is in worse shape than I’d have figured. The stink’d clear your sinuses for good and all. Friend Barker, it turns out, is a bit of a hoarder, and everything’s everywhere. What sounds like a telly is going in the front room, so I head there, and it is a telly – black and white, would you believe; I didn’t think those things existed any more – but nobody’s watching. Someone had been, though, since a cigarette was still glowing in the tray.

  “Mister Barker?”

  Now there’s a noise from what’s probably the bedroom, upstairs, so off I trot like a good Samaritan. Stick out, mind you. Good Samaritans who don’t take care get the shit kicked out of them.

  Just as I’m halfway up, someone comes out of a back room upstairs. I shine the light, and who do I see but Gordo, large as life and twice as ugly.

  “Jesus! You made me jump!”

  “Sarge? What are you doing here?”

  “Better yet, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be going on post?”

  “Yes sarge. But I heard something in here, like, and I figured I’d better check, but when Barker didn’t answer I almost went off, except I found the back door open, and…”

  “Christ, shut it, all right? I don’t suppose you found him up there, did you? No, thought not. Right, sod this for a lark. If you see the caretaker, let him know I want a word, and in the meantime, off you go.”

  Which he does, and I take the opportunity to look round the place one last time. Nobody’s upstairs, nobody’s downstairs. Maybe Barker stepped off to the corner shop, or went for a curry or something. Not my business, anyway, and I did what I said I would, so Not-Quite can’t complain. Which is just as well, since I see his car when I go up to the post, and I figure I’m going to be talking to him too. I don’t. Not sure where Not-Quite ended up, but by the time I leave post, in the wee small, his car’s gone. So I figure he found what he was looking for, or didn’t feel the need to hang around.

  Wouldn’t blame him, really. The countryside loses its charm after the lights are out, the weather turns cold, and you’re stuck in a great draughty tomb of a place, listening to Bob on the prowl, wishing the heating worked.

  *

  There were mice, mice, eating up the rice, in the stores, in the stores; there were rats, rats, big as blooming cats, in the Quartermaster’s stores.

  Can’t get that out of my head. You know how you want to think about something else, anything else, but that one thing’s there, again and again and again?

  Rats, rats, big as blooming cats, in the Quartermaster’s stores…

  They sung that in the War. It was up on one of the walls of the TAC, along with a bunch of other stuff. I remember seeing this documentary once, saying about the rats in the trenches, how they ate the corpses, grew fat on them. One bloke, his abiding memory was going to his new digs, hearing noises, shining a light on the bed and seeing two of the shits on his bed’s blanket, fighting for possession of a severed hand.

  They went for the eyes first, you know that? If they found a corpse, they’d chew right through the eyes, then get into the head. After that they did as they pleased. Fuckers.

  Rats, rats, big as blooming cats, in the Quartermaster’s stores. My eyes are dim, I cannot see, I have not brought my specs with me…

  *

  So the next day I remember I have something in my duffel that I wanted someone with more brain cells than me to have a look at. There’s a bloke in Evidence Recovery who owes me, so I pass it on to him to have a butcher’s at, when he gets a spare moment. I don’t give it another thought.

  Then he calls me up, fizzing like a firework, wanting to know where the hell I’d found it.

  “Never you mind,” says I, wittily.
“What’s got you so bloody ecstatic, then?”

  At which point I get a lecture on the joys of what he calls anthropodermic art, blithering on about shoes, waistcoats, drum skins – honestly, some of ’em should just stay at home and drink milky tea, avoiding excitement of all kinds – and all the wonderful things that leather can do. Which is nice enough, I suppose. I like leather. I have a leather jacket.

  “Is it made out of human skin, your coat?”

  “You what?” I say.

  “Human skin. Because this thing you gave me, that’s what it is, and if you’d told me someone could handle material as delicate and tricky as this, and somehow make it work, I’d have called you a liar. Yet I’m standing here with the thing in front of me, and what I want to know is, what kind of sick bastard are you hunting, that they go taking this kind of trophy?”

  I put him off, I don’t remember how, but I promise him I’ll let him know as soon as I can, and he accepts that, for the moment. He won’t accept it for long, I know that much.

  For me, I’m thinking, no way. He’s fucked it up somehow. I mean, would you believe it? I’d had the damn thing in my hands, and not known. I still could feel it, slick, like and yet unlike candle wax. But human skin? Do me a favour!

  Besides, how the hell could anyone make a perfect Barker out of anyone except Barker? And it couldn’t be his. I mean, we’d seen him, hadn’t we? Since I’d taken the mask?

  Had we? I couldn’t remember. I remembered paying a visit to his house, sure, and I didn’t find him then. Gordo and Phillips, though, had they seen him?

  *

  “So where’s your partner in crime, then?”

  Phillips twitched, guiltily. “You what?”

  I settle in, grabbing a tea. “Gordo, you twonk. Where is he? I want a word.”

  It was a little more than an hour after shift start. The targets were going about their business across the way, and we were taking diligent observation of their movements. Anyone who says otherwise is misstating the facts.