The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

by Tim Ellis

  Row, row, row your boat,

  Gently down the stream.

  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

  Life is but a dream.

  In fact, it seemed more appropriate to what he was experiencing now than then. Was life a dream? Was he dreaming now? He had no idea. Did he still have a grip on reality? Maybe there was no reality anymore. If there was, he was struggling to find it.

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘Go away, Ruth.’

  ‘Oh Quigg! You have to open the door and let me in.’

  ‘You know that under normal circumstances I’d be only too pleased to have you come and join me in here, but I’m trying to sleep, and you’re at least a hundred months pregnant with our baby and you also have swollen ankles. Why are you here? You know your water retention will only get worse if you don’t keep your feet elevated.’

  ‘It’s Máire, Quigg.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Duffy has taken her to the hospital. You have to come. You’re the only one who can save her.’

  What if it really was Ruth in the corridor. What if Máire really was in hospital. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘They don’t know, but you have to come. It might be the last time you ever see your daughter alive.’

  He had no choice, he had to open the door. If Duffy had taken Máire to the hospital, if she was dying, if he could save her . . . how could he not go? He loved his children. All . . . how many did he have now? What type of father would he be if he let his child die when he could so easily have saved her?

  ‘All right, I’m coming.’ He dragged himself along the hallway, removed the barricade of the bookcase and the chair, and flung the door open.

  It wasn’t Ruth standing there – it was a young woman with blonde-streaked hair tied back in an untidy bunch, a nice smile, and dimples.

  He tried to force the door shut again, but she had her foot against the wood.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Don’t you remember me, Quigg?’

  ‘No, should I?’

  ‘Magdalena Van Groesen. I was the receptionist at Grisly Park.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a very good reason for being here, Miss Van Groesen, but I’m in a bit of a hurry . . .’

  ‘We made love.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall . . .’

  ‘You said it was special.’

  He had a vague recollection of an earring left in his bed and admitting that he’d made love to her, but having no memory of actually doing it. ‘I’m sure at the time I might have meant it, but in all honesty, I don’t recall the event.’

  She put a hand on his chest and pushed him backwards. ‘We’ll have to rectify that, Quigg. This time, you’ll remember everything.’

  ‘As much as I’d like to make love to you, I have to get to the hospital. My daughter . . .’

  ‘. . . Is fine – healthy as a baby elephant. It was all a ruse to get you to open the door.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to do, Magdalena.’

  ‘I know, but I am terrible. In fact, I’m evil.’

  The straps of the long flowing dress slipped from her tanned shoulders to the floor. She kicked it to one side with her foot, the door slammed shut and her arms enveloped him.

  He had no strength to stop her doing what she wanted with him, but she was so beautiful why would he want to stop her anyway? What he wanted to do was kiss her, to caress her all over and to make love to her until the world ended in a ball of flame.

  ‘You’re dying, Quigg.’

  ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘But I’m here to save you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that, Magdalena Van Groesen?’

  She had removed his clothes and pushed him back onto the sofa. His trousers were round his ankles, and he had an erection that under other circumstances he would have been proud to own up to. How had that happened? He didn’t have the strength to lick his parched lips, never mind sprout an erection.

  ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ***

  She woke to find that she’d been slobbering from the corner of her mouth like an old-aged-pensioner. If she ever reached fifty, she’d pay someone to kill her.

  Not only that, but she desperately needed to pee and she was still trussed up like a sow for spit-roasting.

  Having no other choice, she got to work. Once she found a rhythm the rope soon began to fray on the edge of the concrete. It took – probably fifteen minutes – for her lacerated wrists to gain their freedom. She then quickly removed the rope from her ankles, shifted away from the access panel in the dark and squatted. It wasn’t very lady-like, but then who said she was a lady anyway?

  Now what?

  Lovelock and the others could be absolutely anywhere in the high-rise, and even though they were guilty of attempted murder they weren’t her main priority. It was also her word against theirs – she would have been a lone voice in the wilderness. Her first priority was to get out and get help. She had no idea what had happened to DI Quigg – maybe it was already too late for him. Even if it wasn’t, the best way she could help him was to get people into the building to find out what the fuck was going on.

  She began climbing down the metal ladder. Twenty-seven floors was a long way. The wind whistled upwards like a twister and she was glad she hadn’t worn a skirt or a dress. Even so, occupying a wind-tunnel needed better attire than a pair of jeans and a tank top – her nipples were as hard as little acorns.

  In the darkness, she had no idea how many floors she’d descended when a torchlight picked her out and blinded her.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way,’ a male voice said.

  ‘You’ll be going head-first before me if you don’t get that fucking light out of my eyes.’

  The light went off.

  ‘My name’s Michael. Have you got a boyfriend?’

  ‘How old are you, Michael?’

  ‘Nineteen . . . nearly.’

  ‘How nearly?’

  ‘Eleven months.’

  ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She crawled into the cavity space. ‘Which floor are we on?’

  ‘Seventeenth.’ He switched the torch back on so that the light highlighted his face from underneath. Michael was a slim black kid with a twist hairstyle and a mischievous smile in his eyes.

  ‘What makes you think I’m going in the wrong direction?’

  ‘The good guys are in the penthouse apartment.’

  ‘You live there?’

  ‘I wish. No, that’s where Ken Coxon is marshalling his army.’

  She half-laughed. ‘Marshalling his army! Anybody would think you’re playing dungeons and dragons.’

  ‘Did you say you had a boyfriend?’

  ‘Look Michael, I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but there are three things you should know about me.’

  ‘You don’t like black guys?’

  ‘Number one – I’m a police detective; number two – I’m too old for you; and number three – I hate men.’

  ‘So, you don’t dislike black guys?’

  ‘No, but I think number three is a major stumbling block to your ambitions. So, who’s this Ken Coxon?’

  ‘An arse-licker. His dad owns all the high-rises on the estate. He lives in the penthouse apartment in the Heights and takes care of daddy’s investment.‘

  ‘And what’s this about him marshalling an army?’

  ‘Yeah – that’s what he said.’

  ‘And how many are in this army?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Ten?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been sent out as a recruiter. Do you want to join the army?’

  ‘Ten is hardly an army, Michael.’

  ‘Armies have to start somewhere.’

  ‘I’m going down. I need to get out and call for back-up.’

  ‘You don’t want to do that –
the bad guys are down there.’

  ‘I’ll find a way.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘You seem pretty sure.’

  ‘I am. Have you seen the bad guys?’

  ‘No, but I’ve seen what they did to Mr Flowers in 27/3.’

  ‘That’s old news. They’ve killed at least a dozen others that I know about . . . They have an army, you know.’

  ‘Eleven?’

  He grunted. ‘I wish. At least a hundred, but they had a head start on us.’

  ‘I’d say the bad guys are gonna wipe you out unless you get reinforcements, which is just what I’m going to do for you.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I thought you were recruiting.’

  ‘I am. I’m recruiting you.’

  She shrugged and climbed back on the ladder. ‘Please yourself.’

  He began following her down.

  ‘Also, it’ll give me the opportunity to show you that I’m excellent boyfriend material.’

  ‘Job prospects?’

  ‘I’ve joined the British Army – 1st Battalion of the Grenadier Guards. I report to Lille Barracks in Aldershot in three weeks’ time.’

  ‘A short-term career then?’

  ‘Are you worried about me already?’

  She laughed. ‘Have you any idea what’s happening here, Michael?’

  ‘Not really. Me and a couple of mates got caught up in it two nights ago on the way back from doing the town – one was killed, one was taken by the others and I managed to escape with Coxon’s help.’

  ‘We think they’re Satanists.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My boss is ill on the twenty-sixth floor.’

  ‘Oh! Well, they certainly do a lot of chanting.’

  ‘Name her?’

  ‘Yeah – weird.’

  They reached the lobby and slid back the access panel a crack.

  ‘How many?’ Michael asked her.

  She counted seven, and they weren’t just sitting around drinking beers and playing snap either. There were five men of varying ages and two middle-aged women. They all had iron bars, cricket bats or baseball bats and were pacing round the lobby as if they were just waiting for someone to beat to a pulp. With the amount of blood on the floor and the walls, it looked as though they’d had a few visitors. She moved back. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  He leaned over and stuck his eye to the crack. ‘Yeah, I told you that you’d never get past them. Nobody’s getting out of here until it’s over.’

  ‘Until what’s over?’

  He shrugged. ‘The war, I guess.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now we head upwards. You’re my first recruit. I have to take you to the penthouse apartment and get you signed up.’

  ‘Forty fucking floors?’

  ‘Speaking as your future boyfriend, I’d say you’ve got the body for it.’

  ‘Very kind. What about going down? Aren’t there two basement levels?’

  ‘Yeah. We don’t want to go down there. That’s where their army is holed up.’

  ‘We could infiltrate their army. Go under cover. Pretend to be one of them.’

  ‘Not a chance. Take another look at those people in the lobby – take a look at their faces.’

  She did as he said. Their eyes were blood red, and their faces showed no emotion. ‘They’re like . . . zombies.’

  ‘Exactly. They were just Heights residents, but they’ve been changed in some way. Now, they’d kill you without a second thought.’

  ‘Is there a signal on the roof?’

  ‘There hasn’t been a signal since this all started.’

  ‘I need to get out of the building then. I’m going down – there’ll be ways to get out down there.’

  ‘Speaking as your future boyfriend – I wish you wouldn’t.’

  She smiled. ‘Are you worried about me already?’

  ‘Damn right. I’ve seen what those crazy bastards are capable of.’

  ‘You forget, so have I.’

  ‘I’ll come . . .’

  Touching his arm she said, ‘No, you have recruiting to do, and two normal people will be spotted more easily than one.’

  ‘Crap,’ he said. ‘We haven’t even kissed yet and you’re dumping me.’

  She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Look after yourself, Michael.’

  ‘And you . . . I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Tallie Kline,’ she said as she started down the ladder.

  His voice drifted down to her. ‘And you, Tallie Kline.’

  ***

  So, he was going to die.

  Well, he supposed it had to happen sometime. He was hoping to last a few more years, but then people didn’t really have a say in when they died, did they? He’d miss his many children growing up – although the way kids were today maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Whatever happened to respect and discipline? He’d miss Duffy, Ruth, Lucy . . . He didn’t believe he was thinking this, but he’d also miss the Chief as well. Ruth hadn’t even given birth to his new son yet – he’d never see him. Then, of course, there was his mother - Beryl. Where was she now on her round-the-world-cruise? He hadn’t had chance to say goodbye to her, and to thank her for . . . well, lots of things he guessed – he just couldn’t think of what they were right now. There was his daughter Phoebe, Aryana and the ‘triples’ in Canada . . . There was a whole host of other people he’d miss. Would they miss him?

  As beautiful as Magdalena Van Groesen was, he decided that he didn’t want to die just yet.

  She grabbed his erection as if it was a baton she was twirling in a competition and tried to force him into her.

  He pulled back. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What in Lucifer’s name do you mean, “Not yet”?’

  ‘There are things to discuss.’

  ‘This is not the time for a discussion, Quigg – we’re in the moment. Discussions are for times when there’s nothing else better to do. We have something far more important to do than talk rubbish.’

  ‘You’re right, we are in the moment, and I’d like nothing else better than for you to have your evil way with me. However, this moment is different from other run-of-the-mill moments, because I’m going to die once the moment is over. I have obligations, Magdalena. In fact, I have more obligations than most men. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘It’s not all the same to me.’

  ‘So, I have no say in it?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘In which case, why have you stopped?’

  ‘Because I like you, Quigg, but that likeness is being stretched to the outer limits.’

  ‘Once we’ve got the questions out of the way, I’ll let you kill me for as long as you want.’

  She climbed off him and began pacing about the living room. ‘Be quick then. I’m impatient to have your seed in me.’

  ‘Do I have to die?’

  ‘You didn’t say you were going to ask stupid questions. Of course you have to die.’

  ‘I know everyone has to die, but do I have to die right now?’

  ‘Haven’t I just answered that?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. How are you going to kill me?’

  ‘That’s not important. What is important is that I’m becoming impatient, and when I’m impatient I get angry, and when I get angry people die.’

  ‘You say it’s not important, but it is important to me. I’d like to know the details . . .

  She grabbed him by the throat. Her eyes were blood-red, her breath smelled of a medieval sewer, and foetid urine and slime dripped from her vagina onto the carpet. ‘Enough questions. Lie down now and become one with me.’

  He glanced at the shrivelled penis dangling between his legs. ‘Ah! That could be a problem.’

  ‘You promised,’ she hissed.

  He was surprised he hadn’t noticed her discoloured teeth and throbbing veins befor
e. ‘A man has to be in the right frame of mind to grow an erection. Impatience, anger and threats by his partner simply aren’t conducive to that condition, so there could be a little wait I’m afraid.’ He pulled his trousers up and popped the button in its hole.

  She stamped along the hallway, opened the door and slammed it behind her.

  He heard distorted voices talking gibberish, screams of pain and agony, and non-human voices chanting: “Name her”. A feeling of unease and foreboding spewed over him. He turned the key in the lock, put the chair under the handle again and crept back to his quilt.

  She said he was dying – was that really true? He certainly felt as though he was dying, but why? It was as if the life had been sucked out of him.

  Maybe he’d caught a virus. Maybe he wasn’t the only one dying. Maybe . . . It was time to go back to sleep. He’d decided that if Magdalena knocked again he wasn’t going to let her in. As much as he wanted her, he had to practise some self-restraint. She wouldn’t be happy, but he was sure he’d die a lot better with a couple of hours more sleep.

  ***

  The further down she climbed, the smellier and noisier it became. On the first basement level she slid the access panel back a crack and pushed her eye to the opening. It was heaving with people. They weren’t doing anything, merely standing there as if they were parked in neutral. What was going on? There was no way she could even think about climbing down into that morass of . . . what were they? Were they still people? Or something else entirely?

  She put the panel back and carried on down to the lower basement level. What was down here? This was where the twister cranked up a head of steam before it shot up the maintenance shaft. There was no access panel. She could hear metal clanking on metal, hissing and sighing sounds as if she was in a steelworks.

  And then . . . her foot missed the non-existent rung . . . her other foot slipped. Because of the sweat and the weight of her body, her hands couldn’t hold on either . . . she fell. She thought she would plummet forever, but she didn’t – she fell in a clatter of empty metal containers that bruised her back but broke her fall.