by Neil White
The shuffling of his feet seemed to get faster, almost gleeful. He was enjoying it too much. She wiped away the tears, ashamed, and looked more closely at what she had to write. It made her shiver.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked.
He shook his head, and Sarah knew she had no choice, so she wrote, her cold fingers struggling with the pen.
She put the pen and paper back into the bag, which he held open for her. Once satisfied, he walked out of the door, holding the bag in front of him.
Sarah looked over at the food and felt her hunger rush back at her. She ate the soup quickly, the spoon clattering against her teeth, and then gulped down her coffee. It was hot and strong.
She lay on her back, feeling stronger, and looked at the grain in the wood of the beams that crossed the ceiling. She looked at nothing else for around twenty minutes, but then she realised that she could see the grain clearer than she could before. The grooves were sharper, showing shade. The light bounced around them, made them move like a slow pulse, rainbows flashing around each swirl, the knots moving in time with the noises that came from the speakers. She was transfixed, wanted to see where the lines went. They moved towards each other as she looked, seemed to get tangled, and then she shrank back as the beams came hurtling towards her, as if the ceiling was collapsing, her arms over her eyes. But there was no pain. She looked up again, and saw that the beams were still there. But they were vibrating in time with the heartbeats that blasted out of the speakers. She scuttled backwards, scared, feet kicking against her blanket as she sought refuge. But there was no safe place to hide. She ended up on the floor, on all fours, her eyes darting around, looking at her cell. She saw that all the walls were moving, beating in time with the noise, and then in time with her own heartbeat, which went faster as her fear grew. The stones of the wall started to blur together and grow darker, making shadows that seemed to blot out the glare from the spotlights.
Sarah screamed and wrapped her head in her arms. It came to her quickly, a dead certainty. Something had been in that food. She didn't feel right. Her thoughts felt like they were being pulled backwards through a small hole, reality imploding, the unreal taking its place.
She felt herself panic. She knew what was happening, but she knew that she couldn't stop it. Her legs turned heavy and she slumped to the floor, unable to move.
Sarah closed her eyes quickly, but the lights were still there. First red, lighting her eyes, then purple, then blue. They went to green, then to yellow, then back to red. Then it started again, only this time faster, the rhythmic change becoming a streak, becoming a blur, the noise of the colours screaming in her head like pressurised air.
She opened her eyes in fright. The ceiling rushed at her. She covered her face, but when she moved her arms away the ceiling was back at the top of the room.
Sarah screamed, but she couldn't hear herself over the metronomic pound of the heartbeat.
Reality was hell. This was worse.
Chapter Twenty-one
Sarah's school was a sixties comprehensive on one of the hills overlooking Blackley, in the more derelict end of town, where the kids would go for gang fights with the Asian kids at the next school along. Time hadn't been kind to it. Paint flaked from the metal window frames in all three storeys, and the bricks looked damp where the flat roof drained the rain down the front of the building.
I made my way to reception just as the classes were emptying. Most of the kids were in uniform, although the ties were slack, the shirt buttons undone, their rucksacks slung lazily over their shoulders. Some wore their coats over their faces and tried to intimidate me as I went past. I ignored them. They were teenagers. Being pleasant wasn't in the script.
The school secretary looked up at me as I approached the counter. I smiled.
‘Hello, my name is Jack Garrett, and I'm …’
‘A reporter?’ she asked, her eyebrows raised, completing the question.
I nodded, could do little else.
She stood and put her arms onto the counter. ‘No, we haven't seen Sarah. Yes, she was a good teacher. Yes, it took us by surprise. Did she do it? We don't know.’ She pointed towards the door. ‘That's all your questions answered. Please leave.’
I noticed weariness in her eyes. She knew Sarah, maybe even liked her, and people just like me had interrupted her life for the sake of a throwaway quote.
But that was the game. I didn't take part to be popular.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘If I can't speak to any members of staff, I'll wait outside and ask the kids.’
‘We've had that threat before.’
‘So you'll be used to it then.’
And then I turned to walk out.
I knew she would shout me back. She was pissed off with reporters because she had no choice but to speak to them.
‘Okay, Mr Garrett, I'll see what I can do,’ she said, and when I turned around she pointed at a low seat by the main entrance and barked, ‘sit there, and don't you dare move.’
I smiled, tried to get her back on my side, but the glare she gave me told me that she wasn't interested in making friends.
I watched the school kids slouch by, and then the secretary appeared at the counter again. She pointed along the corridor. ‘That door,’ she said curtly.
As I looked along, I saw a man by a door, hands on hips, his grey jacket pulled to his sides.
I nodded thanks, but she had looked away before I'd finished it. As I walked, I heard her bellow, ‘Don't run!’, and the sound of adolescent footsteps slowed down.
The head teacher looked more tired than angry. He was wearing a cheap grey jacket over a thin white shirt, with black trousers and scuffed suede shoes. His moustache was bushy, obscuring his top lip, and so it was hard to see whether he was smiling.
‘Hello, I'm Jack Garrett,’ I said, and I held out my hand.
He shook, too polite to refuse an outstretched hand, and then beckoned me into his office. His room was neat and functional. A filing cabinet filled one wall, and there was a bookcase on the other. His desk was beech-effect with a plastic in-tray, but there were few personal effects, no family pictures or potted plants.
As he sat down, he said, ‘So, what do you need to know about Sarah that hasn't already been told to the press?’
‘How are the kids about it?’ I asked. ‘It's not just about Sarah.’
‘I haven't seen the kids as excited in a long time,’ he replied. ‘Their work improved for the first couple of days. If she's caught near exam time, we could get record results.’
I laughed politely. ‘Did the kids like her?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘She was a good teacher. Enthusiastic, engaging, confident.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘There wasn't a hope in hell of her staying around. For teachers, this school is either a launch pad or a retirement home.’
‘Do you know anything about any letters she might have sent since she went missing?’ I asked, watching his response carefully. If the headmaster knew, the police were taking them seriously.
He paused. His fingers went to his moustache and pulled at some of the whiskers.
‘No,’ he said eventually.
I didn't believe him.
‘You don't sound sure,’ I said.
He took a deep breath and glared at me. He gave a theatrical look at his watch.
‘Tell me about the letters, and let's see how far we get,’ he said.
I couldn't respond to that.
He smiled, knowing that I was just fishing for information. ‘I've got to get on, Mr Garrett.’
‘What about 31st October?’ I countered, remembering the Facebook entry. ‘Three days away. Do you know if it means anything special to her, or to anyone?’
‘It's Halloween, and so other than trick or treat, nothing.’
‘What about any special friends at school?’ I asked, as a final gambit.
‘What do you mean? Anyone who would allow a murderer on the run to sleep in their back room?’ he replied, his voice filled with sar
casm. ‘No,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Sarah turned one or two heads in the staff room, but nothing special, and I suspect there were one or two schoolboy crushes.’
‘Sounds interesting. Any names?’
‘This school is full of teenage boys,’ he said wearily, his boredom showing. ‘They would spend all day with their hands down their trousers if it was allowed. It would be nothing unusual if there were crushes, but I suppose their mothers would spot the leggy beauty hogging the bathroom every morning.’
When I looked amused, he rose to his feet and said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Garrett.’
I held up my hands, smiling. ‘Okay, thanks for your time,’ I said.
As I left his room, I heard the head teacher pick up the phone. I gave the receptionist a wave as I went. She glared at me.
I was unsure what to do when I got outside and idly looked around at the pupils as they left to go home. Then I became aware of someone next to me. I looked down and saw a boy of around fourteen, with his head shaved around the sides and a fringe gelled to his forehead. He was wearing the school uniform, but only just. The tie was hanging down to his breast pocket and the trousers were black denims.
‘You a reporter?’ he asked.
‘How can you tell?’ I replied.
‘Because you all look the same,’ he said. I shrugged my apology, and then he said, ‘I hope they find Miss Goode. She was nice. A good teacher.’
I smiled at him. ‘But what if they find her and lock her up?’
He thought about that for a moment, and then said, ‘Nah. I was talking to my dad about it, and he said his solicitor was the best, and if she goes to him she'll get away with it. She's too nice to go to jail.’ And then he walked off, placing some headphones into his ears.
I smiled to myself as I watched him walk away. I realised that I had a better quote by chance than I'd had from the head, straight from a pupil. Sometimes it is best just to let things fall into place rather than push them through.
Chapter Twenty-two
Sarah was curled up in a corner of the room, her knees to her chest, her eyes staring forward. She was screaming. Long, hollow, frightened screams, while she tore at her hair, feet scrabbling at the floor.
She thought she had seen people watching her, laughing, their faces close, too close. She had squeezed her eyes shut, but then she heard something. Moans, shouts. When she looked, two people were fucking, the bright colours of flesh moving on the floor, thrashing excitedly. And then the images were in her head. Laughing, grinning, moving fast into one another, like machines, the noises echoing, the heartbeats getting faster, the colours turning blood-red.
But then the colours stopped. Now it was the door that moved. It opened and closed, sliding noisily, like glimpses of hope, but when she reached out for it she saw the runners had teeth. Whenever the door slid open, they snapped at her with giant jaws, just clipped her feet, and pushed her back into the wall.
When the door closed, the teeth receded, and for a second she could see out. She saw light, like sunlight. Bright, clean, warm. It glowed yellow and soft and drew her in, like the shape of her dreams, moulded from clouds, pulling her forwards. She moved again to the door, left the safety of the wall and tried for the light, but the door banged shut, the noise echoing, making her scramble backwards. And when the door was shut, it became thick and heavy, no more hope.
She looked around. She thought she could hear something. Chanting, singing. People were swaying, rhythmic, enchanting.
Sarah reached out, wanted to feel some contact, but then the door opened again, teeth bared, and the people were gone. She was back in the corner, crying with fear, the noise of her cries being sucked from her and out of the room.
And the spiders. They scuttled in front of her, a mass of them, like a moving carpet, crawling over her feet, their legs like soft kisses on her skin, moving out towards the walls and then creeping upwards, heading for the lights.
Sarah clamped her eyes shut.
Hell.
Chapter Twenty-three
Laura was writing a summary of the interview she'd just conducted with the cable thief. As she'd expected, there had been no answers to her questions. Now it was the paper trail: the case summary, the form for the prosecutor, a final read through to see whether any more evidence was needed.
A shadow fell over her desk. When she raised her head, she saw it was Karl Carson. He stood right over her, so that when she looked round quickly the first thing she saw was his crotch.
‘Why didn't you tell me about your boyfriend and the letters?’
Laura looked up. She thought he looked flushed.
‘How do you know that I know?’
‘Because he knows,’ he said angrily, ‘and so I guess that you two smooched over it last night.’
‘If he knows, it didn't come from me,’ said Laura, ‘and if you think otherwise, prove it.’
His flush deepened. ‘Don't make it difficult for yourself,’ he said, his voice low. ‘The headmaster's been on the phone. He told me what lover-boy was asking about.’
Laura smiled as sweetly as she could. ‘So he mentioned Facebook too?’ When Carson looked confused, she continued, ‘Maybe you should listen to Jack, because please excuse me if I don't come rushing to you. You didn't seem too receptive yesterday.’
‘What do you mean, Facebook?’
‘Events diary for 31st October. “I die” is the entry, and she's near a computer, because now she and lover-boy are friends.’
Carson looked down at her, his cheeks nearly purple now, the colour spreading over his head. Then he turned and stalked out of the room. When Laura was alone, she put down her pen and checked her hands. They were trembling. She didn't know how far she could push him before she found herself in front of the disciplinary department, but she knew that she didn't feel much like helping him. Why was the arsehole ratio so much greater the higher up the pole she looked?
The station was quiet when Rod got back. It wasn't large, looked like a church hall from the outside, and was used as a training centre for the new recruits. If anything happened in his division, everyone dashed out, hoping for something interesting, making it quiet for those left behind. When he went into his office he saw that someone had placed some fax messages onto his desk. They were updates on the explosions. He leafed through them as he sat down.
The sleuth report on the fingerprint analysis was first. It had come back as negative.
The other document was the explosives report. That interested him more. He skimmed through. Like all expert reports, it was filled with technical jargon, explaining the background to the conclusion – so Rod did what he always did: he went to the conclusion. And there it was: ammonium nitrate, a fertiliser-based explosive, the anarchist's favourite. Easy to get hold of, and when mixed properly it could make quite a bang.
He heard a knock on his office door. One of the young constables peeped through and said, ‘There's a young girl to see you, sir. Emily Marsden. She said you would know what it's about.’
Rod sat back. ‘Show her in.’
The constable stepped aside, and Emily walked in, shy, smiling. He recognised her from the visit to Isla's house – the daughter. ‘What can I do for you, Emily?’ he asked, and pointed her towards one of the seats.
Emily sat down, her knees tightly together, a canvas bag in her lap.
‘Do you think my mum is in danger?’ she asked.
‘I don't know,’ Rod replied, ‘because your mother won't tell me anything about herself.’
‘Maybe she doesn't want you to know.’
‘That's her right,’ said Rod, nodding, ‘but I don't want anything to happen to her.’
Emily wrapped the handles of her bag around her fingers and took some deep breaths. Then she said, ‘My mum will kill me for saying this, but it's about Abigail.’
Rod nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘It's the craft group that Mum goes to, where Abigail goes too. I think it's more than just craft, making ri
ngs and stuff.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because they meet up a lot, and whenever she goes, she spends ages getting ready.’ Then Emily smiled. ‘And I've seen the rings and bracelets they sell.’
‘Not very good?’
‘Rubbish,’ she replied, and laughed, embarrassed.
Rod smiled back at her. She was a nice girl. A bit flaky, maybe, the sort of girl who would prefer to sit in a field making daisy-chains rather than hang around in bus shelters, like most of the kids in his area seemed to prefer.
‘How often do Abigail and your mother meet?’ he asked.
Emily thought about her answer, and then said, ‘Once a week, but then once every month they have a really big meeting, and Mum comes back really late. I think they meet somewhere near Newchurch. I know that because I heard her arguing with my dad about it.’
‘Why does your dad get all worked up about it?’
Emily shrugged, and then she toyed with the handles of her bag again. ‘He gets jealous, but I know Mum wouldn't do anything like that.’
‘So what do you think they get up to in the craft-group meetings?’ he asked.
‘I just don't know,’ she replied, ‘but I don't want anything to happen to her. Someone set off an explosion in our shed, and now Abigail has been hurt. I'm worried that they'll come back.’
‘Can you find out when the next craft-group meeting is, and where, and call me?’ he asked, and he passed her a business card with his details on. As she looked at it, he leaned forward. ‘Thanks for coming in, Emily. I'll make sure your mum stays safe.’
Emily looked pleased by that, and headed back out of Rod's office.
When he was left alone again, Rod wondered for a moment about Emily. Teenagers do strange things in their quest for attention, and the craft group was causing problems in the family. How did she feel about that, and was there less innocence to her than it seemed?
Chapter Twenty-four
I checked my reflection in the car mirror before I stepped out. I was nervous about seeing Katie. I was secure with Laura, and I knew I shouldn't be feeling like that, but her flirting made me wonder what lay ahead.
