Grinning, Daniel said, “Mike has called in sick so the boss wants you to do his round for him.”
If the boy was expecting a reaction, none came. The freak wouldn’t even look at him; he was too busy reading the letter in his hand.
“Hello, earth to Shakespeare,” Daniel sniggered.
Bloody freak is probably high on something. “Yoo hoo, lovey, did you hear what I said? I said…”
…The rest of Daniel’s sentence froze in his mouth as icy, black eyes fixed on him. Such was their malevolence that the young man was reluctant to move, for fear that the freak might actually charge, wrestle him to the ground and pummel the life out of him.
The scene was made chilling by a blood-curdling leer he’d seen before, on Jack Nicholson in the Shining.
Eventually, Daniel found his feet, and backed away, very slowly, as the hawkish glare stayed on him, burning deep into his skull.
Finally, he found the courage to turn his back on William Barber and return to his station where, believing himself to be safe, he casually shrugged off the ice bucket of fear, that had been emptied onto his back, by playfully punching a colleague in the arm.
Then, he checked, by glancing over his shoulder, you know, just to make sure that the freak wasn’t still watching him; he was.
24 DARK SKIES
The weather on Thursday was just as miserable as the day before as if to accentuate Ashley’s sombre mood.
It had been a week since Jackie Harris’ death, and Rupert had encouraged her to take time off, but she couldn’t see the point. Jackie was dead, and moping around the apartment was not going to bring her back, nor erase the images of her last moments from her mind.
No, she needed work. She needed to stay busy, especially since the incessant police questioning did nothing to help her push the event from her mind.
As the last person who spoke to Jackie, they insisted on asking the same questions, but in different ways.
Anybody would have thought that it was she who had been driving the car.
Worse, despite all of the questions and the provisional tests performed on the vehicle, they were still unable to explain exactly what had happened. Although, they did intimate that Jackie may well have taken her own life. This was consistent with the fact that it would have taken considerable energy to smash through the parapet of the car park. This could only be achieved if Jackie had deliberated accelerated towards the wall at great speed.
Of course, investigators were quick to jump on Ashley’s recounting of Jackie’s assertion that she was being persecuted by the Metropolitan Police, which in turn led them to speculate that the woman’s paranoia may well have pushed her to suicide.
A deduction categorically refuted by Ashley, who suggested that Jackie’s death may be the result of an attack on her life by person or persons who had purportedly broken into her home, with the sole intention of stealing her manuscript.
She made no bones of sharing who exactly that might be.
And, given that it was the Metropolitan Police conducting the investigation into the author’s death, it was not surprising that her comments proved to be somewhat inflammatory.
Yet, the only response she received was that the investigation was still in its early stages, was ongoing, and that Ashley should be very careful about making unfounded accusations.
“Who gives a shit,” she had retorted.
Now she was gazing through the window of her office at black rain clouds promising yet more rain.
Is this weather ever going to let up?
Below, London traffic crawled forward with headlights blazing against the darkness that was smothering the day.
“You shouldn’t be here, you know,” Marie said, walking into the office.
“Why not?” Ashley replied, without turning.
“Because it isn’t good for you.”
“What would be, sitting at home feeling sorry for myself?”
“Possibly.”
Ashley turned in her chair and marvelled how, even on such miserable day, her secretary was dressed in an immaculate navy blue pinstriped jacket and skirt.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know.” Marie continued, dropping papers on Ashley’s desk.
“Wasn’t it?”
“No, it was not,” she spelled out like a mother who was trying to get through to her insolent child.
“She was obviously desperate, Marie. I should have tried harder to understand what she was going through.”
“I thought you did. Ashley, remember, you were her editor not her mother.”
Ashley pondered on this, “Maybe you’re right.”
So why do I feel so bad?
“What happens to the manuscript now?”
Ashley looked up, “Marie, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think that Jackie’s death meant absolutely nothing to you, just as long as we can still get our hands on her manuscript.”
The older lady shrugged, “Perhaps. At the end of the day, Ashley, your relationship was about business, nothing more. After all, we paid her for the manuscript. It belongs to us.”
“Marie!” Ashley exclaimed, incredulously, even though she knew her secretary was right, but added, “Most of the people here didn’t even want that manuscript to see the light of day. I dare say Martin is doing a jig around his office right now.”
“What a hilarious thought,” Marie said with a smile.
“I don’t know what happens to it now. I don’t even know where it is. No doubt the police will get their hands on it and…” Then it occurred to her.
If the police searched Jackie’s home, which they most probably would, if they hadn’t already, they would sequester the manuscript as evidence. It was what they had wanted all along, and now there was nothing to stop them from getting their hands on it.
Or was there?
25 FIRST SHIFT
The day was handing over to night when Rachel returned to the switchboard desk with a mug of coffee.
It had been a few hours since Lilly had passed responsibility for the service to her, and things had been relatively quiet but for one caller, a woman named Mrs Farmer. It was a name Rachel did not recognise and thus concluded could not have been anyone famous.
It was only now, as she sat in the operator’s swivel chair, drinking from her cup, that she allowed herself to take in her new office, the place she had now dubbed the dungeon.
She felt isolated.
This place was in such stark contrast to the world above, where the architecture was all about light and breathtaking views.
Down here, the small sliver of a window was woefully inadequate.
Earlier in the day, she discovered that the only way to see a patch of green from the gardens was to angle her head in a specific way. Otherwise, it was just a bit of sky with a lot of concrete from neighbouring buildings.
Worse, as Lilly was showing her around the switchboard, once again, and running through all of the dos and don’ts, she’d spotted the boots and partial trouser leg of the gardener, or whoever he was, as he went about his business.
It made her feel claustrophobic.
“You’ll get used to that,” Lilly had said, quickly, noticing the look on her face.
But Rachel had her doubts.
Hence why now, in the absence of blinds, and as night pressed on the window, the idea of switching on the harshness of the neon light, and turning the place into a goldfish bowl, did not appeal to her. But then, nor did the thought that had suddenly popped into her head: someone watching her from the other side of the glass.
She shivered
Stop it.
It’s not as if she’d forgotten her experience in the room of sleepy ghosts.
Stop it! You’re going to freak yourself out!
She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, as if to shake off all negative and creepy thoughts.
She preferred the discretion and cosiness of the small lamp to the harsh realism of the overhead neon light. At least this way she
didn’t get to see too much of the antiquities, the dust, the cobwebs and their equally creepy inhabitants.
Seriously?
This wasn’t the way to start her first shift. She wouldn’t last two minutes. This job was a great opportunity. It would give her independence, avoid a stressful commute to some office across the city, and no doubt might give her the opportunity spend more time with Jason since they lived in the same building.
Now, pull yourself together!
She needed to be busy.
She tapped the pencil on the notepad in front of her and willed the next call to come through, but none did.
Lilly had told her that things generally got quieter in the evenings.
So, she proceeded to untangle the headset wire while wondering if Lilly even knew what Bluetooth was.
And it was as she was fiddling with the earpiece, making sure the microphone was hanging just so over her mouth, that she caught sight of the massive carcass of the monitor that dominated the desk.
This dinosaur of the computer world must be years old. If the machine isn’t working, why does she keep it on the desk?
Then again, the whole place was like that. It was as if Lilly enjoyed clinging to the memorabilia. Maybe she was. Maybe she was clinging on to how things used to be down here. Perhaps, she was hoping to wake up one day, walk in and find all of her girls busy clanking at typewriters and talking on phones.
Is this thing even plugged in?
Rachel slid the chair back and peeked under the desk, found the computer tower and switched it on; the fan was as loud as a jet engine in the still of the room.
“Shit,” she whispered, looking around the room as if fearing that she would wake someone.
Seconds later, the monitor sprang to life, scrolling a list of memory checks and bios statuses.
“Okay, well that’s a start.”
Not surprisingly, the machine was running an ancient operating system but, to its credit, was fully booted within minutes.
Rachel found the usual desktop icons and one she didn’t recognise sitting on the opposite side of the screen; Optel.
She double clicked it and the program loaded, flashing up a splash screen with a logo, and then presenting her with a login screen that requested a username, password and impatient cursor.
“Great,” Rachel mumbled under her breath.
She shook her head. She had no clue.
As a guess, she typed ADMINISTRATOR as the login id and ADMIN as the password, then pressed enter, but the computer returned INVALID USERNAME OR PASSWORD.
She tried again with several other combinations, with and without passwords, upper and lowercase but nothing; the computer kept displaying the same message.
Frustrated, Rachel was about to pull the plug on the thing when a call came through, making her jump.
The light indicated Apartment 3.
“Stanton residence, good evening.”
“Hi, this is Ceri Hooper from Now Magazine.”
“Hello, how can I help?”
“Hi. Would it be possible to speak to Mr or Mrs Stanton?
“I am afraid the Stanton’s aren’t taking any calls at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“Yes, as I said, this is Ceri from Now, Darren Stanton was expecting my call about a piece we’re doing on him next month and I really need to speak with him.”
“I see. Have you tried contacting his agent, as matters of this nature are typically dealt through his rep? Would you like the number?”
“Hello?”
But her reply was the dial tone and the apartment light went out.
Lilly had told her about these calls. Anyone and everyone would try all sorts of tactics to get through directly to residents by bypassing official representatives. It was their explicit job to act as gatekeepers unless explicitly told otherwise. She also went on to stress how important it was that Rachel remember this.
You’re not getting through. Not on my watch, she thought with a sense of satisfaction.
As Rachel wrote the name in the call log, she found herself pondering on the name Ceri Hooper and why the name seemed oddly familiar.
Then she remembered; Ceri was the name of the girl Lilly had told her about, the one that used to work here and had gone missing.
Instinctively, she looked around herself; the room was empty, the door was closed yet, suddenly, she no longer felt alone. It was as if someone was watching her, and was it her imagination or had the shadows grown bigger?
She pushed thoughts she didn’t want to entertain from her mind and turned her attention back to the monitor.
Without even thinking, she typed:
LOGIN ID: Ceri
And no password.
ACCESS DENIED, was the computer’s response.
She tried again but with a variation on the spelling.
LOGIN ID: Keri
And no password.
The computer displayed: PLEASE WAIT, ACCESSING TELEPHONE MAINFRAME.
“Excellent!”
The hourglass filled and turned, filled and turned some more, but nothing happened for a minute or so until there was a beeping sound and the message:
UNABLE TO CONNECT TO TELEPHONE MAINFRAME. OK.
“Shit! No, it’s not okay.”
She peered under the desk, but it was way too dark.
So, she grabbed the lamp and, stirring an army of shadows, she bent onto her hands and knees, while shuddering at the thought of what might be lurking down there.
Nonetheless, resolute in her mission, she peered behind the computer tower to find tangled cables, a blanket of dust and a cobweb blowing in the breeze of the computer’s fan like laundry on a washing line.
She squirmed when she wondered where the web’s resident might be. Then, gingerly checked for loose cables, but finding none.
So, she got back to her feet, slapped the dust of her hands and, with a big sigh, sat back in the chair.
That’s when another call came in. The light on the handwritten label said that the call was for Apartment 6.
“Mr Gallagher’s residence, how may I help?”
“Hi, is Gallagher there?” It was a female voice with an American accent.
“I am sorry; Mr Gallagher isn’t taking any calls right now. Can I take a message?”
“Yes, tell him that Alice Wrigley from Fox called.”
“Will do, Miss Wrigley,” Rachel said as she wrote on the pad. “Can I take a phone number?”
“Actually, it’s Mrs Wrigley. He has my number. ”
“Could I take your number anyway, just in case…?”
The line went dead.
“Hello? Hello?”
The apartment light went out.
“Suit yourself.” She mumbled as she pulled the headset off.
Maybe this job wasn’t going to be as exciting as she thought.
Despondent, she turned her attention back to the computer. Its cursor was still flashing insistently, as if frustrated by the human who was incapable of using it.
Rachel grabbed the mouse and was about to shut the machine down, but stopped when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the telephone cable leading out of the back of the switchboard unit and onto the floor, behind the desk.
She stood up and followed it to the wall socket and that is when it occurred to her; the computer may not even be connected to a telephone line.
So she checked the back of the machine. Sure enough, it housed an empty telephone socket.
She followed the cable back up to the switchboard, where she carefully lifted the brown, antiquated contraption and turned it into the light; the telephone line was plugged into the back of it. She guessed it was this that was missing from the back of the computer, but she asked herself whether she dare risk unplugging it.
This was her first day after all.
On the other hand, how happy would Lilly be if she finally got her investment earning its money?
What if I unplug something I shouldn’t? What if I can’
t put it back as it was? Course you can, just make a note of what you are unplugging and where.
Instinctively, she looked around the room again, and at the door.
Still closed.
Then, she unplugged the telephone wire from the back of the switchboard, and plugged it into the back of the computer.
She clicked the OK button and the login screen reappeared. She typed in KERI, with no password, and the familiar message was displayed:
PLEASE WAIT, ACCESSING TELEPHONE MAINFRAME
The egg timer restarted its acrobats.
After a few seconds, she saw a new message that read:
CONNECTION ESTABLISHED, LOADING SWITCHBOARD
“Yes!” She punched the air and then looked around, as if expecting somebody to cheer with her.
I guess college wasn’t such a waste of time after all.
Within seconds, a two pane window appeared.
On the right was what looked like a blueprint for the building with a summary that read 10 floors, 21 Apartments. She assumed this included the penthouse.
Each apartment was tagged with floor and door number.
The left, smaller pane, displayed statistics, such as connection, date and time, room, operator, etcetera.
When the program had completely loaded, a prompt appeared:
TELEPHONE LOGGING IS ENABLED; PLEASE ENTER LOG NAME FOR THIS SESSION:
C: OPTELLOGSKERI_
The cursor flashed as it waited for Rachel’s input.
She hesitated a few seconds and then typed in today’s date and pressed enter.
A green light appeared in the top left-hand corner of the screen and a box labelled STATUS read: WAITING CALL.
Then, an aircraft cabin-type bell sounded from the computer’s speakers, startling Rachel. The status on the screen read, INCOMING CALL, and a prompt box read: Ringing Heron Heights, Answer? YES / NO
“Oh, Shit!”
The box kept flashing and the bell kept sounding.
BONG: Ringing Heron Heights, Answer? YES / NO
But the headset was not plugged into the computer; it was still connected to the old switchboard.
She panicked and hissed repeatedly, “SHIT!”
Unspeakable Page 17
