3AM

by Amy Cross

  Nearby, just past the fence that ran along the side of the train-line, the Marshall Heights tower-block stood silhouetted against the night sky.

  Part One

  DAWN

  One

  Today

  “I'm just checking up on my aunt,” Megan replied as she fished around in her purse for a tip. The taxi's engine was still running and the doors remained locked. “She hasn't been in touch with the rest of the family for a while, so we figured someone should come and check up on her.”

  She handed a few coins to the driver.

  “I drew the short straw,” she added with a faint smile.

  The driver slipped the coins into his pocket, and then he unlocked the doors and stepped out, leaving the engine running. He hadn't said more than a couple of words during the late-night journey from Paddington, and Megan couldn't help but worry that she might have inadvertently offended him. Either that, or the guy was just born sullen, which seemed perfectly possible given the permanent scowl he seemed to be wearing. His taxi stank of stale peanuts and beer.

  “Welcome to London,” she muttered to herself.

  Fumbling to get her purse closed and back in her bag, she climbed out of the taxi and looked up at the imposing black shape that rose high above her and blocked out the night sky. Marshall Heights: a huge, thirty-storey tower block constructed at the height of the 70's push for brutalism, a cathedral of concrete and glass. The place looked like a giant gravestone, albeit with windows and balconies and the occasional glimpse of life. There were lights in some of the windows, but most of the building was shrouded in darkness, set against the hazy dark orange city skyline.

  “Your bag,” the driver muttered, shivering a little as he placed the small suitcase next. He added something else under his breath before slamming the boot closed. “Good luck round here. Watch yourself.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, turning to watch as he climbed back into his taxi.

  “It's a rough neighborhood, that's all.” He pulled the door shut. “I don't bring many people out to this place,” he continued, “and I've never, ever picked anyone up from here. You're lucky I didn't charge you danger money to come to this part of town, I might have my wheels nicked before I get back across the bridge.”

  As the taxi drove off, Megan reached down and grabbed her suitcase, before making her way toward the tower-block's entrance. Nearby, a train rattled past on the line that ran just a few meters beyond the fence.

  Two

  “It's okay,” Charmian whispered, kissing her daughter's cheek as a passing train rattled the window. “I won't be long. I just have to nip to the emergency surgery and talk to someone about something. I'll be back in an hour, maximum.”

  “But mum -”

  “Beth...”

  “Please don't leave me home alone. I don't like it.”

  “You can be brave until I get back, can't you?” She watched Beth's face, painfully aware of the fear in the little girl's eyes. “It's not that late,” she continued, tucking a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her daughter's ear. “You know I'd never let anything happen to you, don't you?”

  Beth nodded.

  “And you know not to open the door to strangers?”

  Another nod.

  “And your tooth doesn't hurt, does it?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then there's nothing to worry about,” she added, planting another kiss on her cheek before getting up and heading to the door. “If you're really brave, I'll let you have macaroni cheese for breakfast in the morning.”

  “Promise you won't be too long,” Beth continued, almost getting up from the sofa and running over to her before managing to hold herself back. Like a brave girl. “Please?”

  “I promise,” Charmian said, smiling at her before heading out into the hallway and taking her coat from the hook. She glanced back through just as she heard Beth un-pausing the DVD. For a moment, she listened to the sound of cartoon characters shouting at one another, and finally she told herself that the sooner she left, the sooner she'd be back. Heading out onto the walkway, she turned and pulled the front door shut before giving it several pushes, just to make absolutely certain that it was locked.

  Pausing for a moment, she listened to the sound of the DVD coming from inside the flat. For a few brief seconds, she felt as if everything was normal.

  Three

  “I called ahead,” Megan explained. “My name is -”

  “I remember,” the man replied as he continued to search through his desk drawers in the cramped office. “Megan... Booth, right? Patricia's niece? Sorry, I'm usually more organized than this but it's just been one of those days. The plumbing is driving me crazy.”

  Megan smiled politely, filled with a nauseating combination of exhaustion and nerves. The nausea had been building for a few hours now, as if concern about her aunt had begun to affect her physically. All she wanted was to get to her aunt's flat and find out what was wrong.

  “Bloody thing,” the man muttered, still struggling with the drawer.

  He was younger than he'd sounded on the phone, around Megan's own age, although he seemed terribly flustered as he continued the search. He was well-spoken, though, and there were piles of books all over the place. Megan couldn't help but wonder how he'd ended up managing an inner city tower-block, although she quickly realized that she was probably just being a snob.

  “Give me a minute,” he continued, “I have to find the master-key. I put it somewhere for safe-keeping, and now I can't quite remember where. I guess it's too safe, I should...”

  His voice trailed off.

  “I'm sorry to keep you up so late,” she said after a moment. “The evening train was late, some kind of signal fault.”

  “It's fine,” he muttered. “I'm usually in the office until midnight anyway, going through the paperwork. I can't even sneeze around this place without having to fill out a form in triplicate. Not that anyone ever bothers looking at them, but that's just the way things are.”

  “Is there still no sign of my aunt?” she asked.

  “It's like I said before,” he replied, sliding a drawer out and balancing it haphazardly on his paper-strewn desk, “I haven't seen her for quite a while now. After I spoke to you the other day, I asked her neighbors and from what I can tell no-one's laid eyes on her since before Christmas. I knocked on her door and slipped a note under, but there was no response. Her mailbox is stuffed full.”

  “Didn't anyone think to call someone?” she asked.

  “Call who?”

  “The family? The police?”

  “People keep themselves to themselves here,” he continued, examining a key for a moment before setting it aside and continuing his search. “If I went running around after everyone who laid low for a while, I'd never have a moment's rest. Sorry, there's not much time for social responsibility and kind, caring community work here. Sad but true.” Finally he held up another key. “I think this is the one. I really should mark it somehow. Or maybe I did, there's kind of a smudge on the side.”

  Sighing, he got to his feet and made his way around the desk. Reaching out a hand, he finally smiled.

  “Michael Powers,” he told her, “and yes, I really am the manager here. People always seem surprised but, you know, a job's a job and a first in Criminal History from Cambridge doesn't give me an automatic right to a well-paid academic position with prestige and respect.” He paused as a glimmer of bitterness crossed his face, but he soon forced a smile. “Sorry, I think I might have come dangerously close there to venting my deep-rooted frustration with life. Still, there's a lot you can do on minimum wage, it's not as bad as it's made out to be. I consider this period of my life to be research for some as-yet undetermined social commentary project. I'm thinking of writing a book, too. Of course, first I need to -”

  He paused suddenly.

  “Am I venting again?”

  “A little,” she replied with a smile.

  “And sh
owing my self-pity?”

  She nodded.

  Sighing, he took some coins from his pocket and dropped one into a coin-filled jar on his desk. On the front of the jar, a handwritten label read: Self-Pity Jar.

  “It's like a swear jar,” he explained, “except I put money in every time I catch myself moaning about my pathetic, meaningless existence. Whoops, there I go again.” He dropped another coin into the jar. “All proceeds go to charity, naturally.” He paused. “That's not true. I take it to the pub. Sometimes I think I'm stuck in a vicious circle.”

  “Looks like there's a lot in there,” Megan replied, trying to make polite conversation before realizing that perhaps that hadn't been the right thing to say. Spotting a book on the desk, she peered at the title. “The One Hundred Greatest Killers in London's History,” she read out loud.

  “A little morbid,” he admitted. “What can I say? I'm interested in the history of crime in this wonderful city of ours.”

  “I'm sure it's fascinating.”

  “Let me show you to your aunt's flat,” he continued, grabbing a gas canister from the other side of the room before heading to the door. “You might be low up there. I don't usually offer personal tours, but you're lucky, I'm feeling generous. Anyway, no-one's come down and complained about anything yet. The longer that phone goes without ringing, the more threatening it seems.”

  “Is that what happens most days?” she asked as he led her out of the office and over to the elevators. “You just field complaints?”

  “Put it this way,” he replied, “if Mrs. Partridge in flat 113 doesn't get in touch at some point in the next twenty-four hours to complain about her cat, I might well start believing in God.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Mrs. Beckett in 105 has hot water coming out of her cold tap and cold water coming out of her hot tap. She wants it fixed, but I figure I'm just gonna go up and switch the blue and red parts over.” He jabbed the elevator's Call button several times until it finally lit up, although the square panel was slightly askew. “Mr. Hague in 419 keeps calling to complain that Mr. Palin in 420 plays opera too loud, so I guess I have to mediate between the pair of them and maybe pick u some new batteries for Mr. Palin's hearing aid. Either that, or some old batteries for Mr. Hague's. Oh, and Mrs. Rutherford in 510 doesn't like the view from her kitchen window, I'm not sure how I'm going to fix that. But wait -”

  As the elevator doors slid open, he grabbed the handle of her suitcase.

  “Where are my manners?” he continued, gesturing for her to step inside. “Ladies first.”

  “You don't have to do that -”

  “Chivalry isn't dead,” he told her. “It's just bleeding on the floor and keeping very, very still.”

  “This place seems very quiet,” Megan replied as she entered the elevator, which had been decorated at some point with varying pieces of graffiti. She watched as Michael hit the button for the eighth floor, and the doors slid shut with a kind of stuttering, grinding sound that didn't bode well for the standard of maintenance. She was already wondering if the stairs might have been a better bet. “It's almost...”

  She paused, searching for the right word.

  “Dead? Rotten? Putrid?”

  “I wasn't going to say that...”

  “It's true, though,” he continued, turning to her as the chamber began to rise. “No-one at Marshall Heights is under any illusion that we live in a nice neighborhood. Most of the people here would move away in a flash if they could, but when you're relying on council benefits to pay the rent, you don't really have much choice, so people buckle down in their flats and do their best to keep their lives ticking over. Most of them play the lottery like it's a religion. They dream of being saved from their little box, but...” He paused for a moment. “It's really not that bad, not once you learn the rules.”

  “Rules?”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but something seemed to be holding him back. “Doesn't matter. Not unless you're planning to stay the night.”

  “I saw a hotel nearby,” she replied. “I figure I can probably get a room there if I don't manage to find my aunt.”

  “Huh.” He eyed her with suspicion for a moment, as if the idea of her staying was somehow troubling him. “Well, maybe.” The chamber stopped and the doors shuddered open, and he wheeled her suitcase out onto the windy open-air walkway that ran along the eighth floor. “The hotel's in this part of town aren't exactly known for their comfort. Bed bugs the size of ants, from what I hear.”

  “How much do you think a room would be? I didn't have time to check.”

  “801,” he said, stopping in front of one of the doors. “Let's see if your dear aunt Patricia is home, shall we?” He jabbed at the bell, which could be heard ringing inside the flat.

  They stood in silence for a moment, waiting awkwardly.

  “She hasn't answered her phone for three weeks,” Megan said eventually, as she glanced over her shoulder and looked out at the view of the late-night city. London had always seemed so vibrant and exciting, but from the eighth floor of Marshall Heights everything just looked threatening. The lights of the city were dazzling, but the pockets of darkness in-between seemed to be staring back at her. “It's so weird,” she continued. “There are so many lights, the sky's almost orange.”

  Michael rang the bell again, keeping his finger pressed down hard for a few seconds this time.

  “She's not here, is she?” Megan said after a moment. “I was hoping she'd answer the door and everything'd turn out to be a huge misunderstanding, but she's really missing.”

  “It's late,” he said, checking his watch. “She might just be in bed.” He rang the bell again.

  “She's not here,” Megan said again. “I could feel it in my blood all the way here. Something's wrong.”

  “Right,” Michael muttered, “let's do this.” He slipped the key into the lock and turned it, before pushing the door open to reveal the gloomy hallway inside flat 801. “Patricia,” he called out, “it's Michael from the office. I'm here with your niece Megan. Are you home?”

  Four

  On the screen, several cartoon robots were engaged in a loud CGI battle, throwing one another into various buildings and causing general carnage. The editing was rapid, causing the images to change constantly, demanding the viewer's attention and lighting the room with various shades of hazy blue.

  Beth, however, wasn't watching. Sitting on the sofa, she was staring across at the door, her eyes wide with fear. She'd heard a noise a couple of minutes earlier, and she was waiting to hear it again.

  She held her breath, hoping against hope that the sound was something innocuous: the fridge switching cycles, maybe, or just the pipes creaking. She waited until finally she heard the sound again, as if something was scratching at the front door.

  Grabbing the remote control, she turned the TV volume up to maximum.

  Five

  “Maybe she went on holiday,” Michael suggested, wheeling the suitcase into flat 801 and setting it down before heading over to take a look in the living room. He flicked the light switch and waited a moment as a bulb flickered into life. “Tidy,” he continued. “Doesn't seem so bad in here.”

  “It smells fusty,” Megan replied, making her way to the bedroom door and pushing it open, “like no-one's been in here for a while.” Leaning into the next room, she hit the light switch, and then she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw that the bed was empty and properly made. “Thank God,” she whispered.

  “You were worried she'd be...” Michael began to say, before thinking better of it.

  “Everyone's worried,” she replied, turning to him. “This isn't like her. Trust me, she's the kind of woman who never really does anything, never goes anywhere, but suddenly she's vanished from the face of the planet. This might seem like an overreaction but if you knew her at all, you'd know that she's the last person in the world who'd ever disappear like this.”

  “I don't know her,” he said, heading t
hrough to the kitchen. “Just in passing. She's never been one of the complainers, and unfortunately I only have time for the complainers. Story of the whole world, huh?” When he reached the sink, he tested the taps. “Habit,” he muttered to himself. “Whenever I'm called up to one of the flats, it's always the plumbing or the gas.”

  Opening the cupboard doors under the sink, he leaned down and took a look.

  “You're out,” he sighed, reaching in and twisting a valve before pulling the empty gas canister out. “This building is so old, half the flats still rely on portable gas.” Setting the new canister in place, he attached the nozzle and then turned the valve again. “If that sounds unbelievably old-fashioned, well, it is.”

  “Her bag's here,” Megan called through to him. “Her purse and everything. And her mobile phone. If she'd gone out somewhere, she'd have taken them.”

  “Unless she forgot.”

  “And didn't come back for them? For three weeks?” She ran through the menus on the phone for a moment. “All the messages we sent over the past few weeks are unread.” She turned and looked back across the hallway. “God, she's really missing, isn't she? I was hoping I'd get here and find there'd been some huge misunderstanding, but she's actually gone.”

  “Did you speak to the police?”

  “We checked there hadn't been any accidents,” she explained as she stopped in the kitchen door, holding her aunt's bag in her hands, “but we didn't file a missing person report, not yet. They said we had to come and look for her first. To be honest they seemed totally disinterested, like they were determined not to come and check up on her themselves.”