‘Happy New Year, Mercedes,’ it said. ‘I’ve got a present for you. Want to come and see what it is?’
Heard now and without the disguising overlays of fake interference, it wasn’t so convincing; it didn’t even sound human anymore. ‘Derek,’ she said, ‘it’s you, isn’t it?’ But the voice went on as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘All right then,’ it said with faked resignation. ‘I can see I’ll just have to bring it to you myself. ’
She dropped the phone. She’d taken too long, allowed herself to be trapped; she looked around for a way out, a weapon, anything. With sudden inspiration, she moved to the tape deck and ripped the tape out from around the pick-up head; the music from the big speakers overhead ended with an ungainly squelch, and the big reels on the deck started to speed up as its tension control sensed a lack of resistance. Somebody might hear, somebody might wonder; perhaps even the Managing Director, who was notorious for calling people to account for fluffs and glitches which had happened at the most ungodly hours. Given time, somebody might even come to see what had gone wrong.
And then they’d probably find her, making up a foursome with Don and the others; because time was something that she was almost out of.
There was a soft thump from just outside; it was the sound of the studio’s outer door as it closed behind someone. Someone who was about to open the inner door and step through into this one-exit, soundproofed killing pit. Mercedes was looking, but she couldn’t even see any scissors or used blades from tape-editing.
The door opened with a hiss; he came in sideways with his eyes glowing like coals under darkened brows, a single strand of damp hair hanging forward over his face. He was hiding something from her, and it was as he turned to bring it into view that Mercedes found the will to move. She snatched up one of the metal reels from the stack beside her and, with a grace and an accuracy that wouldn’t have been possible with forethought, threw it edge-on and frisbee-style towards Derek. It zipped through the air, spewing out tape as it spun, lifting in flight and making straight for his face. He ducked, but not fast enough. The edge of the reel clipped him neatly on the forehead and he staggered back.
He fell against the door, but the door gave only reluctantly as its damper resisted. He was pitched down onto his side as the reel clunked onto the floor and rolled away, still leaving a trail of tape behind it. Derek was struggling feebly. Mercedes came around the desk, sick at what she’d done and unable to resist her own feelings of guilt; she’d never killed anything, never even hurt anything before, and now here she was, plunging into the major league with a human target. She hesitated when she saw that Derek was moving to get to his feet again; she’d slowed him, but it seemed that she hadn’t stopped him.
He pushed himself up against the doorframe. His movements were stiff, his eyes empty and dazed-looking; when he glanced down, it was with a thick, liquid slowness.
‘Shit,’ he said bleakly. ‘You spoiled my surprise.’
He was looking down at his right hand; this was gripping a wooden plate that Mercedes recognized, after a moment, as the newsroom billspike. There was a lag in recognition because of the fact that only a couple of inches of the spike itself were visible. His hand was held out in front of his chest, just where the breastbone ended and the soft tissues began; the point was marked neatly by a dark stain that was beginning to spread through the material of his sweatshirt.
The fight to get upright was obviously proving too much for him. With a sigh of regret, he gave up and began the return slide to the floor. He hit it with a grunt, and his hand fell from the spike’s wooden base; this stayed in place like some king-sized hatpin pushed into some life-sized voodoo doll, and now Mercedes saw that his eyes were fixed on nothing in particular.
It took her several minutes to raise the courage to step over him; time in which Derek didn’t move, didn’t blink, and didn’t even bleed much any more. A tiny bubble of blood appeared at one nostril, stayed for a while, and then popped as the last breath slowly left him. The overhead speakers hissed with the no-transmission phenomenon that was called—with grim appropriateness—‘dead air’.
Between this and the four lifeless bodies in the room, Mercedes found herself being driven from the studio by an urge that was almost physical. She stepped carefully over Derek, forcing herself to watch him in case this should turn out to be some elaborate and impossible trick to get her within reach, and then she fell thankfully through the outer door and into the low air-conditioned hum of the corridor. The first sight that met her eyes was that of a long trail of yellow papers, scattered around the corridor floor and stretching back and around the comer towards the newsroom; these were all of the bulletin scripts from the last few hours, ripped from the spike and discarded en route to the studio. He must have been pulling them off one at a time, she realized, like the petals from a flower or the legs from a fly.
Her own legs were feeling none too steady, but they held her up well enough as she headed towards the offices. There had to be a phone somewhere, at least one outside line that Derek (or, as she was thinking, the potent force that had expressed itself as Derek) hadn’t remembered or managed to block. She wanted to call somebody, it almost didn’t matter who anymore . . . the police, the boss, her mother in Bristol, any human voice or contact.
Surely the Director’s office would have its own outside line; probably more than one. She expected to find the door locked, but it wasn’t. She felt around for the light switch before she entered, not wanting to step out into darkness; the lights came on to reveal the quiet expense of executive furnishing. The carpet was thick and soft, the wood paneling warm and mellow. The phone on the desk was ivory-white.
And it rang.
Mercedes lifted the receiver slowly, and listened. The voice that came down the line was a signal now stripped of any pretence at humanity.
‘Men may come, and men may go,' it quoted softly, 'but I go on forever.
‘Happy New Year, Mercedes.’
Paul Kane
NIGHTMARE ON 34TH ST.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
A time of loving, of giving. Peace on Earth and good will to all men…or should that be "persons" in this Politically Correct day and age? Yeah, right. Officer Mal Docherty hadn't seen much evidence of "Peace on Earth" recently, hadn't seen much evidence in all his years on the force come to think of it. Yes, it was true that the crime rate had gone down in New York, so the figures said. But here on the streets, down here you saw plenty. Muggings, stabbings…and shootings - there were never any shortage of those. The last one he'd seen involved a drugs case back in August. Mal and his partner, Norman Young, had provided back-up for the cops in charge of the case, and they'd witnessed the worst possible outcome of a deal gone sour. Mal could see the blood now, exploding out of the victim's chest as the bullet… He shook his head; he'd seen worse anyway. Much worse.
"Here y'go, Tee," said Harry Grable, handing over two steaming cups of coffee to Mal. "That'll keep you going for a while."
"Thanks, Harry." Mal had been coming to Harry's stall ever since it became part of his beat a few years ago. Harry made the best damned cup of java you'd ever tasted, and his hot dogs and doughnuts weren't so shabby either. The large man with salt and pepper hair and a glowing red nose that would give Rudolph a run for his money leant against his cart, grinning as Mal fished about in his pocket for change.
"No need for that, Tee. On the house tonight. It's Christmas."
Mal looked up and down the street, surveying the scene. The swell of bodies filling up the space, bobbing in and out of stores - most notably Crosby's, the biggest store on 34th Street - all doing their last minute shopping. Not too far away a Salvation Army band was playing "O Come All Ye Faithful"... Quite who the faithful were, Mal had no idea, but the bandleader was conducting the music for all he was worth in case they happened to show up. Lights glimmered in the darkness, the festive decorations illuminating the whole area. Above, giant screens advertised everything from aftershav
e or perfume at one end of the present scale to outrageously expensive sports cars at the other: a stocking filler for the man or woman who has everything.
"So it is," said Mal. "God bless us every one." He raised his coffee in salute, then took a sip, the liquid warming him up temporarily. It was freezing out here tonight, the weathermen - sorry, weather-people - promising snow again before the evening was out, to top up the layer that had already settled the day before last. Mal wasn't looking forward to working on Christmas Eve, of all nights. But he and Norm had drawn the shitty straw once again so he'd just have to accept the fact that he was on shift now till the wee small hours. It meant that he'd miss all the preparations that were going on back at his home. His children, Lauren (seven) and Brad (five) getting all excited, ready to put out the mince pies and sherry for Santa, Wendy helping them make out their wish lists, a tradition from Mal's own childhood. Then they'd put them under the tree in the hopes they'd be replaced with brightly-coloured packages tied up with bows the next morning. That's really what it was all about, the innocence of being a kid - their belief in the magic. Mal missed that now he was a grown up.
"You been watchin' too many old movies, Tee,' said Harry.
"Yeah," replied Mal. There were plenty on TV to choose from at the moment, the titles more of an irony nowadays: It's a Wonderful Life… Is that right? Still, better than living in the real world, he supposed. "Well, cheers, Harry. You have a good one, won't you?"
"You too, Tee. Say hello to the missus and the little ones from me."
Mal raised the coffee cups, and turned his back on the vendor. He made his way past the crowds, back to the distinctive blue and white patrol car parked on the opposite side of the road. In shop windows he saw his reflection: the dark uniform of a NY policeman, peaked cap, padded jacket and belt, with baton and gun hanging from it. Mal sometimes wondered why he'd ever joined the ranks of the boys in blue. To make a difference? To make the city a safer place for your average citizen, if such a thing existed? To help create a decent world for his children, to give them something to believe in? At times it just felt like he was fighting a losing battle.
The lights changed as he got to them, the signal stating he was able to cross safely. Norm sat in the passenger side of the vehicle. He wound down the window as Mal approached, eager to take possession of his drink. The sounds of the radio wafted Mal's way: U2's "Angel of Harlem" playing on a non-stop X-Mas station Norm had found. Mal heard the lyrics "New York like a Christmas Tree, Tonight this City Belongs to Me…" and thought how appropriate the first part was. New York did look like a Christmas Tree tonight, with all the decorations and lights, while the real thing - a giant Tree not too far away - was attracting ever more visitors. But the city did not belong to Mal, didn't belong to anyone. It was an entity in its own right, one that shouldn't be judged by looks alone.
"About time," Norm called out through the gap in the window, "I was beginning to think you were grinding the beans yourself." He took the cup from his partner and drank a mouthful, the coffee sticking to parts of his moustache. Norm looked at Mal. "No doughnuts tonight?"
"Like I said before, Norm, you can do without them." Mal pointed to the policeman's paunch, hanging over his belt. "Save some room for that turkey tomorrow." Mal knew that even though they were separated, Norm's wife, Cynthia, would be cooking a huge spread the next day for him - Mal always got a report back about it when the pair met up again…and she made enough to feed most of the division.
"Oh I can always find room for one of Harry's doughnuts," Norm assured him.
"I'm sure." Mal drank some more of his coffee and looked back over at the crowd again, seeing the faces this time. None of the people on the streets of New York tonight seemed particularly happy, or festive. They looked stressed, impatient, irritable. Christmas had become almost a mirror of modern day society in a way. Everything had to be done in a hurry and there was more pressure than ever to get things right: to keep up. Lose your footing on the treadmill and you were a goner. The ads showed a perfect world that couldn't possibly exist, and was all but impossible to live up to. Happy families, friends, lovers, all gathered around the fire playing games and having fun. The reality? Most family get-togethers ended in rows, most parties relied on booze to kick start them - and as for those on their own at this time of year, thinking they were missing out, well there was no wonder the suicide rate rocketed between December 24th and 26th …
"What're you thinking about?" asked Norm.
"Mmm? Oh, nothin' much. Nothin'…" Mal's sentence trailed off as he noticed a disturbance out on the street. There were a handful of folk piling out of Crosby's, a couple of maroon-suited staff following them. But these people didn't look stressed; at least, not in the same way as the other New Yorkers. They looked more panicked than anything, tumbling out of the entranceway, arms flailing as they did so.
"Norm?"
"Still here."
"Norm, take a look across the road." Mal pointed in the direction of Crosby's and what was rapidly becoming a small-scale riot of sorts.
Norm frowned. "Something's up."
Mal glanced back at him. "No shit, Sherlock. Your finely honed police skills tell you that? Here," he said, handing Norm the other coffee cup, "Hold this. I'm going to check it out."
Mal made his way back across the road, not bothering to wait for the traffic signals to change now. Instead he dodged in and out of the cars, earning a blast on the horn from one yellow taxi-cab. The police officer pushed past the gathering crowds to get to the people in the entranceway. Just what the hell was going on? A fire maybe? That would explain the pandemonium… Or, heaven forbid, something worse. Something man-made…? Surely this city had seen enough of that kind of thing to last a million lifetimes?
"Okay, okay, what's the problem here?" Mal asked, his hand on one woman's shoulder.
She turned, a look of surprise and bewilderment on her face.
"Ma'am. Can you tell me what's going on?"
Still she stared at him, dumbstruck, so Mal looked around for someone else who could help. One of Crosby's staff came up, eager to oblige. "Officer, oh thank the Lord."
"What's happened, sir?"
"There's…" the man paused, not knowing quite how to explain the situation. "There's been an incident, one of-"
And then Mal heard it; the distinctive blast of gunfire, coming from inside. Somebody in the crowd screamed and there was even more commotion. Mal grabbed the staff member before he could be swallowed up by the churning mass of bodies.
He looked the man in the eyes. "How many?"
"Just one guy, he's gone nuts-"
More shots rang out.
"There are still people inside," said the man from Crosby's. "Children…"
"See that squad car over there, go tell the officer inside to radio for assistance."
"I…yes, I think someone's called the authorities."
"Go tell him anyway!"
The man nodded and began to push back through the crowd. It took a second or so for Mal to lose sight of him completely.
All right, Malcolm Docherty…What should you do? Back-up's probably on the way right now…wait for it to arrive? Might be too late by then…and he'd said there were people inside…children…I have no choice…have to do something…
Mal had to go inside.
Fighting against the tide of humans that were still pouring from the store, he headed for the doors, and headed inside Crosby's department store…
* * *
It had actually been less than a week since Mal had been in here, last Saturday to be precise, but it had been under such different circumstances. That day he'd been looking forward to visiting the store, bringing Lauren and Brad to town to see Santa in his den. In spite of the superficiality of it all, word had it that the fella they'd hired this year was good: extremely convincing and a wow with the children. Mal had to admit that was right. They'd queued for hours on his day off just so his little girl and boy could sit on Father Christmas
's lap. Had it been worth it? You bet. Just to see their cherubic faces light up as they entered the grotto - decorated with candy-coloured stripes, balloons, fairies, huge fluffy bears, and trees laden with baubles, stars and chocolate treats… There was even a toy train chuffing around the tracks above parents' and children's heads.
And then, as Lauren and Brad were finally allowed up to the podium, where Santa sat in all his glory, dressed in the customary red and white outfit, they'd both beamed so broadly all Mal could see were teeth.
"Ho, ho, ho," Santa had said, also smiling - although you could only just see it behind his big white bushy beard. Brad and Lauren took their turn to whisper in St. Nicholas's ear, as female helpers dressed as elves readied presents to give them when they were done. And when Mal took their hands to lead them away, Santa pulled down his half-moon glasses and winked. Nice memories, and something to hang on to when everything else was gloomy…
All Mal could think was what a shame this had to happen here. What a shame that whatever might unfold now would wipe out that memory and replace it with something completely different, something like-
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!
Mal heard the shots as he walked through the foyer, another handful of shoppers running past him. They were coming from the direction of the grotto he'd visited. Obviously someone else had been pondering the nature of this season a little too much, and he'd come up with his own way of coping with it. Mal broke into a run himself. But he ran in the opposite direction to the fleeing customers - drawing his own weapon as he went. There hadn't been too many occasions when he'd had call to discharge his pistol, and only one instance when he'd had no choice but to… Mal hoped with all his heart that it wouldn't come to that again tonight. Not tonight.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 89
