by Shaun Hutson
As she was drying her hands she looked at the gold ring Scott had given her, the metal black in places. She ought to clean it.
It could wait.
She finished drying herself and pulled on a long sweater to cover her nakedness, then wandered into the kitchen to make herself a warm drink before she went to bed.
At first she didn't hear the phone ring.
The water was gushing from the tap into the kettle, obliterating all other sounds.
Then she heard it and turned towards the sound coming from the sitting room.
Who the hell was calling her at 1.30 in the morning?
She sighed. Scott. Checking that she was okay.
Why can't you leave me alone?
She put down the kettle and walked back into the sitting room, picking up the receiver.
'Hello,' she said resignedly.
Silence.
'Hello.'
Still no sound.
She felt her heart beat faster.
'I'm watching you.'
The voice cut through her as surely as if it had been cold steel.
She gripped the receiver until her knuckles turned white.
'How did you get this number?' she said quietly, trying to control the fear in her voice.
Silence.
'I know your sort,' she said, her show of bravado fooling neither herself nor the caller.
Only silence greeted her remark.
Slam the phone down.
'I know all about you,' the caller said, and now Carol was certain that it was the same voice as the other night. Not that she'd had much doubt in the first place.
Now she did slam the phone down.
For long seconds she stood looking at it, her eyes fixed to it as if it were some kind of venomous reptile that was about to bite her.
Take it off the hook.
She actually had her hand on the receiver when the phone rang again.
She snatched it up and pressed it to her ear but this time she didn't speak.
She heard a sound at the other end. A wet sound. Like someone licking their lips.
'I'm still watching you,' said the caller. Then he hung up.
Carol stared at the receiver, but all she heard was the dull monotone of a disconnected line.
She didn't put it back on its cradle.
She simply dropped it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
10 MAY 1977
The explosion had been massive.
It had torn away the roof of the kitchen area, sending slates and lumps of stone hurtling skyward like shrapnel. The remains of the structure had simply collapsed in upon itself as if the walls had been made of paper. Tongues of flames thirty feet high had erupted from the wreckage, the pieces of burning debris showering down on the roof of the asylum like fragments of comet, some actually tearing through, others bursting again, causing more havoc, spreading the fire more rapidly than anyone could have imagined.
It took less than six minutes from the initial blast to transform Bishopsgate Institution into a blazing inferno.
The whisper was gas leak, the result was devastation.
The fire brigade had been called and ambulances were outside the building ready to ferry the dead and injured away. The air was alive with a cacophony of sirens and the roaring of flames. Firemen directed jets of water at the flames while their companions struggled to help the staff of the institution evacuate patients.
Smoke, belching from the burning building, hung like a thick black shroud over the blazing asylum. The air was filled with millions of tiny cinders, as if a plague of small flies had infested the air.
Inside his office Doctor Robert Dexter pulled on his jacket and ran out into the corridor. An intern hurtled past him, his white jacket smoke-stained, his hair singed. Dexter could hear screams of rage and fear as he started along the corridor, aware of the acrid stench of burning.
He saw two more interns running towards him, both sweating profusely, their faces dark, their uniforms dirty.
'The West Wing is clear,' said one of them. 'We managed to get everyone out.'
'The firemen are evacuating the rest of the building,' said his companion.
Dexter nodded.
It was then that he saw Colston round the corner.
Dexter ran towards his colleague, his face pale.
'We've got to get out,' said Colston, his breathing rapid. 'The whole place is coming down around,us.'
As if to emphasise his words there was a loud creaking noise, a wrenching timber. A shower of sparks burst from the ceiling and covered the two men, who both ducked down. The smell of smoke was stronger now and Dexter could actually see the first wisps of it curling round into the corridor.
'We've got to get to Ward 5,' said Dexter.
'Let the fire brigade take care of it,' Colston said agitatedly, coughing now as more smoke filled the corridor.
Dexter grabbed him by the shoulders.
'And let them find what's in there?' he hissed, his gaze firmly on his colleague.
The realisation seemed to hit Colston and he nodded. Together they hurried up the corridor, relieved that the smoke wasn't too dense as yet. Even so, both men found that the acrid fumes stung their throats as they ran on through the clouds of smoke.
They passed a window and Dexter glanced sideways to see the firemen outside spraying the building with water. A number of people were being helped into ambulances, some supported by uniformed men.
The two doctors ran on, reaching a closed door. It led through into another corridor and Dexter snatched at the handle. He cursed at the heat of the metal in his grip but he pulled the door open, standing back as he did so.
A searing blast of flame swept through the open door and as Colston pushed himself back against the wall the fire scorched his sleeve. Dexter waited a moment then ran on.
The smoke was dense inside the corridor, tongues of flame flaring from both sides.
Doors of cells stood open, some of them blazing infernos. The incessant clanging of fire bells, curiously redundant in the blaze, filled their ears. Colston hesitated, but when Dexter bellowed at him he followed, shielding his face from the heat with one smoking arm. He could smell the burned hair on his arm. His eyes were watering, the back of his throat felt as if someone had turned a blow-torch on it. Dexter seemed unconcerned by the blistering heat; his only desire was to reach Ward 5.
They had two more corridors to pass through.
The first was clear.
The second was an inferno.
The roof had been holed by a lump of falling debris and the grey sky was visible through the clouds of smoke spewing through it. To the right Dexter saw something twisted and blackened, still ablaze, lying in the doorway of a cell.
It took him a second or two to realise it was a body.
'Leave them,' shouted Colston, forced to shout to make himself heard above the roaring of flames and the clanging of firebells.
Dexter turned to look at his companion, his watery eyes narrowed.
'We can't,' he roared back, ducking as a piece of the ceiling crashed down only feet from him. 'If the fire brigade reach Ward 5 before us…' He allowed the sentence to trail off, then shook his head.
Both men sucked in deep breaths and ran on. Colston thought his lungs were on fire too.
Another door and they would reach their goal.
It was ahead of them at the end of the corridor and, as he ran, Dexter pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. As he reached the door he could feel an incredible heat from beyond, even through the thick steel.
He turned the key and wrestled with the handle, ignoring the blisters that rose on his hands. He tugged the door open. The two of them dashed in.
The ceiling was ablaze.
From one end of the corridor to the other the area above them was one writhing, twisting mass of fire. Lumps of blackened plaster and wood fell around them, some striking them.
Dexter moved towards the first door and selected a key.
From inside there were screams. Wild, almost animalistic yells of fear and rage.
'We can't' shouted Colston, shielding his head as more of the burning masonry showered down.
'We have no choice,' Dexter told him. Another piece of the ceiling fell inwards, driving them back, the flames rearing up, snatching at them like venomous reptiles. Colston shielded his face, raising his voice again to make it heard above the raging inferno that now threatened to engulf them.
'We can't get them all out,' he shouted, staring wide-eyed at Dexter.
The older man realised he was right.
He headed for the last cell.
'No,' shouted Colston in horror. 'You can't.' He tried to prevent Dexter opening the door but the other man already had the key in the lock. He pushed Colston away.
The door swung open.
Dexter thrust the bunch of keys into his colleague's hand.
'Open that door,' he bellowed, the heat now almost unbearable. He nodded to the door at the end of the corridor and Colston did as he was told, pushing the key in, straining to turn it, to release the lock.
More sparks showered him; the ceiling seemed to hover, as if suspended on invisible wires.
It was a matter of moments before the entire thing caved in.
Colston twisted the key helplessly in the lock, afraid that the heat might have warped it out of shape.
Inside the cell Dexter took a cautious step towards the occupant. As ever he found that he was shaking slightly as he drew nearer.
'We have to go,' he said, his voice calm and measured, his eyes never leaving the inhabitant of the room. He could feel how dry his throat was. Not all of it, he realised, was due to the fire. When he tried to swallow it felt as if somebody had filled his mouth with chalk.
'Come on,' screamed Colston.
'We must go now,' Dexter said, his tone more forceful.
'Dexter, for God's sake,' Colston bellowed, looking up at the ceiling.
Inside the cell the single occupant moved towards Dexter.
It was then that the ceiling collapsed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
EXILE
The figure moved slowly in the darkness, treading carefully in the gloom, cursing the lack of light but welcoming the cover the blackness brought.
The only sound was the crunch of footsteps on the gravel of the driveway.
An owl sat in the lower branches of a nearby tree, unable to hunt as efficiently without the presence of the moon. It watched the figure that moved from the house to the car repeatedly.
More than once the figure would stand still beside the car as if listening to the stillness of the night, ears attuned to the slightest sound or movement. Then, satisfied that no one else was around, the dark shape would move stealthily about its business once again.
There was rain in the air, the odd gust of wind bringing with it the first droplets that threatened a storm. Banks of cloud were gathering to the west, blown ever closer by the rising wind. It rattled the branches of the trees and ruffled the feathers of the owl, which finally tired of watching the furtive movement and flew off, its wings beating quietly in the darkness.
The figure looked up, following the bird as it soared high into the night sky in search of prey.
After a moment longer spent listening to the stillness the shape returned to the house.
There were no lights burning within the building; the darkness inside was as total as that of the tenebrous gloom without. But the figure moved more assuredly within the confines of the house, scurrying back and forth from room to room, sometimes pausing in one room, glancing around as if to check that everything was in place.
Finally, the figure ascended the stairs, slowly but purposefully.
The rain began to fall more rapidly now, the wind propelling the droplets like handfuls of cold gravel.
When the figure emerged from the house again it turned its face to the rain as if in welcome, standing there for a moment before turning to another dark shape which accompanied it.
Had the owl still been perched in the tree it would have seen a second figure join the first in the blackness.
The first of them opened the passenger side door and ensured that the second was comfortably seated, then closed the door and locked it from the outside.
That task completed, the first figure walked unhurriedly around to the other side of the car and slid behind the wheel.
The silence was broken by the noise of the engine, which idled for a moment. Then the car was driven away from the front of the house, the wheels crushing gravel as the tyres rolled.
It began to pick up speed along the short driveway then turned into the road.
There was no traffic about at such a late hour. The occupants of the car may as well have been the last two people on earth.
The car disappeared into the night.
TWENTY-NINE
He'd stolen the car an hour earlier.
The automatic transmission on the Datsun had taken a bit of getting used to and when he'd first slipped behind the steering wheel he'd cursed his luck. But, fuck it, he needed a car. He'd manage. Now Mathew Bryce slowed up as he approached the traffic lights in Shaftesbury Avenue, his eyes scanning the hordes of people that filled the bustling thoroughfare. So intently was he studying the throng that he didn't notice the lights slip onto green. The blast of a hooter behind alerted him to the situation.
Bryce swung the car right, peering round at the driver behind, raising two fingers. The man mouthed his own insult back and drove past.
'Cunt,' muttered Bryce, his eyes still flicking back and forth. He saw couples. Old, young. Girls in groups. Sometimes alone. Some people hurried along, others strolled through the night. A young man was running along, trying to stop a taxi before it pulled away, but he was unsuccessful and stood, hands on hips, glaring at the vehicle as it moved off. Bryce passed him and grinned out at the man.
All around the neon signs from clubs, pubs and restaurants filled the night, creating a kind of artificial twilight. With the window wound down, Bryce could hear the crackle of so much static electricity. He slowed down as he saw a woman crossing the road ahead of him, watching her breasts bouncing in her tight fitting top. Her silver-coloured hair trailed over her shoulders, blown by the wind that whipped through the narrow streets. It also disturbed the litter that lay in the gutters and on the pavements. An empty can was sent rattling across the concrete like a kind of bizarre tumbleweed. A youth passing by took a kick at it and sent it skittering into the road. Further along an old man, bundled up in a thick overcoat, was sorting through one of the overflowing dustbins, picking out portions of half-eaten food and carefully dropping them into the plastic bag he carried, making his choice as fastidiously as any gourmet at a buffet table.
Bryce swung the car right again, then sharp left into Rupert Street. Again he slowed down, peering at a young woman standing in a doorway talking to a tall man in a suit. Bryce stared at her with interest. She couldn't have been more than twenty, her shapely legs revealed by the short mini-skirt she wore. She was puffing contentedly on a cigarette as she spoke. Bryce stopped the car, the engine idling.
It was a couple of minutes before the man finally noticed and looked questioningly across at Bryce, who was now leaning on the windowframe, looking more closely at the girl.
'You lost, mate?' the man in the faded suit called.
Bryce didn't answer.
The girl also turned to face him now, brushing a stray hair from her mouth.
He looked at her features, his own face expressionless.
'What do you want?' the man called.
A car turned into the road behind Bryce, the driver braking to avoid a collision.
The man in the faded suit moved towards the car.
'You got a fucking problem, or what?' he said, irritably.
Bryce pressed down on the accelerator and the car moved off, leaving the girl to stare after him. He turned another corner and saw a car pulling out of a parking
space. Bryce guided the Datsun into it, cursing when it juddered slightly. He switched off the engine and sat there for a moment, his window down, the noises of the night filling his ears. He leant forward, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. From across the street he could hear music and, all around him, voices and the ever-present crackle of neon. He put both hands over his ears as if to shut out the noise. Theh, slowly, he sat up again, looking around him, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the rear view mirror. It stared back at him accusingly. His face was pale, the dark rings beneath his eyes all the more prominent because of his pallor. His hair was thick but combed back severely from his prominent forehead. As he ran a hand over his chin he heard the rasp of his bristles against his fingertips.
Bryce grunted, gripped the rear-view mirror and tore it off.
He hurled it onto the back seat and sat there, panting. Then he turned slowly and looked at the blanket that lay across the rear seat.
The blanket had belonged to the owner of the car.
The can of petrol and the hunting knife it concealed belonged to Bryce.
THIRTY
For a moment she thought he was going to fall over. Paula Wilson stood rigid as she watched Mark Eaton lurch from the doorway of the pub in Cambridge Circus. He shot out a hand and steadied himself, smiling stupidly at her.
The gesture only made her more angry.
'You never know when to stop, do you?' she snapped angrily, looking first at him then at the night sky. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall. Paula pulled up the collar of her suede jacket. A large droplet of rain fell onto it and she sighed. Grey suede. It would be ruined in the downpour.
'I'll be okay,' said Eaton, stumbling towards her, bumping into a dustbin. Some of its contents spilled out onto the pavement and he stooped to pick them up as if he were tidying his own house. Passers-by looked quickly at the young couple, particularly at the young woman in the grey suede suit who was shouting so vehemently.
