The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

by Tim Ellis

  He turned over and closed his eyes. More sleep was definitely required.

  ‘Quigg?’

  He forced his eyes open again. Who was calling his name? It sounded like Celia Tabbard. Why was she calling his name? How had she got into the building? Why was she here? What did she want? Where was she?’

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Let me in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Now’s not a good time.’

  ‘Let me in, we can talk about it.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should. I need my sleep.’

  ‘You need me.’

  ‘I know what you have in mind.’

  ‘Do you, Quigg? Do you really?’

  ‘What you always have in mind.’

  ‘Is that so bad?’

  ‘I have to rest.’

  ‘You can rest afterwards.’

  ‘I’m not feeling very well.’

  ‘I can kiss it better.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

  ‘Let me in, Quigg. Let me show you.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’

  ‘I’ll regret it if I do.’

  ‘Let me in. You know you want to.’

  ‘Go away, Celia. All I want to do is sleep.’

  He lay back down, dragged the quilt over his head and closed his eyes. Sleep – that’s what he really needed.

  ‘Quigg?’

  Had he been asleep? He didn’t feel any better for it if he had. In fact, it seemed that every time he closed his eyes Celia woke him up.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Let me in.’

  ‘Not tonight, Celia. Maybe tomorrow.’

  He heard scratching at the door.

  ‘Stop scratching the door, Celia. You’re not coming in.’

  ‘If you let me in, I’ll make all your dreams come true.’

  ‘I dream of sleeping. If I let you in I won’t get any of that.’

  ‘Let me in now, Quigg.’

  The door shuddered in its frame.

  ‘Quigg?’

  It was Lucy. How had she got in the building? In fact, how had she found out where he was? What was she doing here?

  ‘You’d better let me in, Quigg.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why. I haven’t had a good fuck for days.’

  ‘Is Celia out there?’

  ‘Never mind about her. I’m here now. Let me in.’

  ‘I just want to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll let you sleep.’

  He tried to laugh, but he didn’t have the strength. ‘You’re not Lucy. Lucy would never let me sleep. Who are you?’

  Another voice, an evil voice said, ‘I’m your worst fucking nightmare, Quigg. When I get in there I’m going to tear you limb from limb.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll let you in then.’

  He heard a terrifying howling sound as if there were monsters in the corridor. He yanked the quilt over his head again.

  Sleep – just leave me alone to sleep.

  His eyes slammed shut and his mouth hung open. If there was a world record for tiredness, then he’d be in the Guinness Book of Records.

  He was hallucinating – that was the only explanation. Some of the people he cared about were inhabiting those hallucinations. Why Celia and Lucy? Why not Ruth and Duffy? Did it matter? No, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was sleeping. Whoever was out there could bang on his door all night – he wasn’t going to let them in.

  Sleep.

  Hours and hours of wonderful sleep.

  ***

  She sidled along the twenty-seventh floor corridor. If only she had a tank, or at the very least a rocket-launcher. Where were the forensic officers? Where was Constable Louise? Where was Perkins? For some reason she was back on the floor that she’d started on. How was that possible? The building hadn’t moved, so it must have been her, but how? She retraced her steps and looked up. Crap! The access panel was closed. Either the people she’d met had gone back on their word to help her, or they weren’t there anymore.

  ‘Hey?’

  No response.

  ‘Hey! She shouted a little louder. ‘Anybody there?’

  The panel didn’t move.

  She tried not to think such thoughts because they were ridiculous, and if they popped into her head she forced them out again, but one thought kept rattling at her skull. Could she be in a parallel universe – an alternate reality? Was there even such a place? It was science fiction and pathetically absurd. She was as crazy as the woman in 27/1 for allowing the thought to linger. The trouble was, if Perkins wasn’t in 27/3, then where was he? And where the fuck was she?

  It wasn’t the first time she’d shifted from where she was meant to be, to another place. How was she doing it? Was she doing it? Or, was somebody else doing it to her? That last idea made her angry. If she found out somebody else was doing it to her – there’d be fucking trouble.

  First, she checked Flat 27/3. The name on the brass plate was Lance Flowers.

  Nobody answered her knock, so she kicked the door in. It definitely wasn’t the crime scene.

  There were two bread rolls in the bread bin. She checked the fridge and helped herself to cheese, a lettuce, a tomato and made herself two salad rolls. It felt like a thousand years since she’d eaten. She smiled – all this jumping between universes had made her hungry. After she’d eaten the rolls she gulped down half a litre of orange juice and spent a penny in Lance Flowers’ bathroom.

  Before she left, she found a rucksack and filled it with essentials such as: a torch, a couple of big knives that she slipped in the side pocket for easy access, a litre of water, the rest of the cheese, the can opener and a couple of small tins of beans. There were probably a hundred and one things she should have taken, but she wouldn’t know what they were until she found she didn’t have them.

  Next, she knocked on Flat 27/1 where Jenny French lived. Sometimes, the crazy people were exactly the right people to answer the crazy questions when your back was against the wall.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The police detective who knocked earlier.’

  ‘Show me some ID.’

  ‘Can’t you remember my face?’ she said, pulling out her warrant card and holding it up to the peep hole.

  ‘People can easily be copied.’

  ‘I’m not a copy.’

  ‘Copies always say that.’

  The door opened a crack. Jenny French still had her pointy tin foil hat on her head.

  ‘You’ve spoken to a lot of copies, have you?’

  ‘I’ve seen them pacing the corridor, wondering how they can get into my flat. What do you want this time?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’d like to talk to you about the copies.’

  ‘You’ve seen them as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She moved out slightly and looked left and right along the corridor. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘I promise I’m not a copy.’

  She opened the door.

  Kline ducked under Jenny’s arm.

  The door closed with a bang. Three bolts and five security chains were applied, and the key was turned in the lock.

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Garlic.’

  ‘Why are you burning it?’

  Jenny passed her a pointy tin foil hat.

  Kline shrugged and put it on her head. When in Rome . . .

  ‘The copies don’t like the smell.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  The hallway was lit with a low-wattage bulb. Tin foil covered the lamp shade.

  Kline followed Jenny into the living room. The only light came from the static on the television screen. Tin foil covered the windows and had been wrapped around all the electrical wiring.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘A potion t
o ward off evil made from angelica root, crushed caraway seeds, chicory, palo azul, St Johns wort and vervain.’

  She perched on the edge of a chair. ‘Sounds yummy, but I’m fine at the moment. What’s with the tin foil?’

  ‘The copies attack your brain first. They try to change how you think, put their thoughts inside your head and steal your thoughts until you have none of your own. All that’s left is them – they control you. They tell you to open the door and let them in – that’s what you do. It’s not you anymore. And if you let them in, you become one of them.’

  ‘And they do all that through the electrical wiring and appliances?’

  ‘Yes. The caretaker helps me keep them out.’

  ‘The building caretaker?’

  ‘No. I call him the caretaker because he takes care of me. He talks to me. He’s the only voice inside my head that makes any kind of sense at all.’

  Ask stupid questions – get stupid answers.

  ‘Okay, so tell me about the copies.’

  ‘They’ve always been here, but you never really saw them before.’

  ‘Why are you seeing them now?’

  ‘It’s her.’

  ‘Her? Her who?’

  ‘I don’t know. The caretaker won’t name her. I’ve asked him, but he’s afraid.’

  ‘Afraid of what?’

  ‘He won’t say.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about her?’

  ‘No. I listen at the door sometimes. I hear the copies chanting, but they never say her name.’

  Kline stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, Jenny.’

  ‘You’re going?’

  ‘I have to. Someone has to get rid of those copies.’

  ‘Yes. The caretaker said an angel would come.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m no fucking angel.’

  ‘Angels come in all shapes and sizes.’

  ‘Whatever.’ A fucking angel! Nobody in their right minds would ever think she was an angel. She made her way to the door. ‘Keep the door locked, and keep drinking the potion.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  The door banged shut, and she heard Jenny putting the bolts and chains back on.

  What now? Something had obviously happened to change the status quo. A woman – who everyone was afraid to call by name – had arrived and upset the applecart. The copies had come out of the woodwork and the shit had hit the fan. Now, there seemed to be a battle going on between the copies and the normals.

  She put her hand up and realised she was still wearing the pointy tin foil hat. It wasn’t helping her – she was still having crazy fucking thoughts.

  On her own, she couldn’t do anything. As much as she wanted to help Quigg – he was on his own now. She needed to get out of the building and call the Chief for back-up.

  She made her way back to the access panel – it was open.

  ***

  ‘Quigg?’

  Not again.

  He pushed swathes of quilt into his ears, but it didn’t help.

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘What now?’ he aimed at the barricaded door. ‘Can’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘Why does everything you touch turn to shit, Quigg?’

  ‘Hello, Chief.’

  ‘Let me in, Quigg. A senior officer shouldn’t have to shout at a subordinate through a closed door.’

  ‘I’m sleeping, Chief.’

  ‘You’re awake, Quigg. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  ‘But I am trying to sleep.’

  ‘You’ll be in deep shit if you don’t let me in, Quigg.’

  ‘If I let you in, will you give me the resources I need to solve this case.’

  ‘Whatever you want, Quigg. Just let me in.’

  ‘It’s not you, is it, Chief?’

  ‘Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?’

  ‘That’s a good question. If you were the Chief you wouldn’t give me any resources – no matter how much I begged.’

  ‘There’s somebody else here you should talk to.’

  ‘Let me in, Quigg.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Duffy?’

  ‘I have Máire with me.’

  ‘Really?’ He staggered to the door. His clothes were dripping in sweat, and his skin looked a ghostly white. He stuck his eye to the peephole. ‘Hold her up, so that I can see her.’

  ‘Are you going to deny your own daughter, Quigg? Let us in now, and then you can see her.’

  ‘You wouldn’t bring Máire here.’

  ‘If you don’t let us both in now, I swear you’ll never see your daughter again.’

  ‘If you’re not Duffy, who are you really?’

  The door began shaking as if there was an earthquake, light poured through the gaps like water and a terrible shrieking sound hurt his ears.

  He dragged himself back to the sofa and tunnelled under the quilt again. Nobody was coming into the flat until he’d had at least a hundred hours sleep. He didn’t care if God himself was rattling on the door – nobody was going to keep him awake, and that was his final decision.

  Who were all these people? They definitely sounded like the people they said they were, and how did they know the little details about him? Something wasn’t quite right, but then something hadn’t been quite right since he and Kline had arrived at Apocalypse Heights. If only he had the strength to do something about it.

  In the morning. He’d be his usual suave and jaunty self in the morning. If he could just get a few more hours sleep he’d be fine. He’d wake up early bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and find out what the hell was going on.

  First though . . . he had to . . .

  ***

  ‘Hey, are you there?’ she hissed.

  Lovelock’s head appeared at the opening. ‘We’re still here. Is it safe?’

  ‘Yes, there’s nobody here. Haul me up.’

  They lowered a rope.

  She climbed up the knots. Once she was kneeling in the cavity space, she slid the access panel back into place.

  Then everything went black.

  How long she was unconscious for she had no idea, but when she opened her eyes she was lying on her side with her hands and feet tied together behind her.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Her head throbbed like a nuclear bomb.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about the head thing again.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake! I’m on your side.’

  ‘After you’d gone, we had a talk and decided that you were a threat to our safety.’

  ‘I was going to get help.’

  ‘Maybe we don’t need help.’

  ‘It’s going to get a lot worse, you know.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. No one knows we’re up here, and we’d like it to stay that way.’

  ‘So what? You’re just going to leave me tied up here without any food and water?’

  ‘Sorry. We talked about killing you, but none of us are murderers.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She heard people moving away. ‘You’re not fucking sorry, or you wouldn’t leave me like this.’

  Soon, it was completely dark and quiet.

  That was something she hadn’t expected.

  What now?

  Fuck’s sake!

  She struggled against her bindings, but they’d done a good job – she wasn’t going to wriggle free. This was not the place or the manner in which she had imagined herself dying, but how was she going to get out of here?

  They’d probably taken the rucksack with the knives in the side pocket with them, so they were no good. She had to find something to cut the rope.

  Of course, she could just lie here and wait to die, but that wasn’t going to happen. She was far too young and beautiful to die in a dingy ceiling space. This was not going to be her coffin.

  She began slithering across the rough concrete floor like a snake, and as she went she tried to fe
el for something that she might be able to use to free herself, but they had left her nothing useful.

  How long she had been there she had no idea. Time seemed to stand still in the empty blackness. The more she moved, the more the concrete floor tore into the skin of her arms – she was tired, raw and bleeding.

  Eventually, it came to her that she’d climbed through the tool that she needed to cut through the ropes. All around the access panel were the sharp edges of the concrete floor. She’d been careful not to cut herself on them. They were exactly what she needed. The trouble was, she’d moved so far away from the small square opening that she had no idea where it was anymore.

  Not only that – she was tired, bleeding and losing any hope of ever getting out of the ceiling cavity alive. She was very close to giving up and letting fate have its way with her.

  Instead, she cried.

  Since those two men had raped her as a fifteen year-old, nobody had ever seen her cry, and nobody ever would. Alone in the darkness though, she indulged herself.

  Afterwards, she had renewed energy and purpose. She chose a direction and began moving slowly across the floor. If it was the wrong direction . . . Well, nobody could accuse her of not trying, or giving up.

  Of necessity, she took frequent rests, but it was slow and difficult progress.

  Then her feet found the side wall of the building, and she could feel a cool breeze on her face, which she knew must be the maintenance shaft. The access panel was directly in line with the shaft.

  Hope and energy flooded through her bruised and battered body.

  She snaked towards the shaft, and then found the square access panel.

  At last.

  Now, she needed to rest.

  She was so tired. What time was it? She was completely disoriented. Hours, days or weeks could have passed her by for all she knew. She had to sleep for a while – just a little while to re-charge her batteries.

  Then, she was going to cut through the ropes and kick some fucking ass.

  ***

  ‘Quigg?’

  The answer wasn’t to answer.

  ‘Quigg?’

  Doo-de-doo-de-doo. Dah-de-dah-de-dah. He began reciting a nursery rhyme his mother used to sing to him when he’d suffered from the night tremors. He had no idea why she sang it to him, because she was a terrible singer and the rhyme wasn’t related in any way, shape or form to his fear of dead people. Maybe it was the only nursery rhyme she knew: