Darkshines Seven

by Russell Mardell

  Singer? Three times she said his name, and each time that silence seemed to grow louder. Could she actually be free of his hold? Free of Bleeker Hill? What if she just turned and ran? For an instant it felt like a real choice, and that freedom opened up around her and taunted her. Then no sooner had she felt that rush of possibility, than she found herself standing at the base of the building, staring up at it, her eyes moving from window to window, from floor to floor, and then finding their rest at the giant wooden door in front of her that led inside. It was ajar. To one side, Blarney was cocking his leg up a flowerpot, the toy rabbit still wedged into his mouth.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said to her dog, and then two legs followed four into the darkness inside.

  5

  The sensation had dragged a dim and distant memory from far back in his subconscious. In trying to grasp anything in the situation he could understand, Sam had remembered a time many years ago – a time when things were good and life was colourful – when he had visited Lapland. He had gone with the school and his mother had borrowed the money from that bastard Mr Evans next door, and he had done things to her and shouted at her when she cried, but she had made sure Sam had gone and had told him to enjoy himself and have fun because it was such a special thing to actually meet Father Christmas after all, and what are you going to ask him for Christmas, Samuel? Have you made a list? He remembered that big old jolly man sat on his sleigh and then sat around a fire in a little makeshift grotto, and he had known he was a fraud from the off because his breath had smelt like Mr Evans’ breath and his mum had always told him that Mr Evans lived solely on cheap lager and take-away dinners, and this was Father Christmas, and he only ever drank sherry, and Sam hadn’t seen any take away places on their way up to the grotto. But he hadn’t cared that it wasn’t the real one. Things like that didn’t matter. Besides, the reindeers were real and he had got to meet Rudolph and feed him a carrot.

  Sam remembered. Sam remembered everything. He could recall every moment of that trip, every little touch and comment, every face and every friend, and he could remember the weather most of all. It was the first time he had seen snow. Real snow. Not like that crap they had at the shopping arcade that came from a can, this was real and crunched and cracked under your foot. He remembered his old wellies that he had been wearing, the ones his mum had said she should replace but, well, money and that, and he could remember how the wet seeped in and how the boots tried to slip off with each step and how he could barely move and it felt like he was wading through treacle and people were laughing…that was what it felt like now. This sensation. He was walking through thick snow again, even though he knew that he was really standing still. There was someone laughing too and this was a nasty laugh.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Inside his mind his voice sounded like the voice of a twelve year old, and Sam hated it.

  I want what you want. You know me. We know each other well.

  He looked down between the wooden posts of the staircase, past his battered trainers that were dangling over the edge, and gripped his fists tighter around the bannister, just above his head. Beneath him, three floors down, he could see the shadows of strangers moving up the wall, as bodies unseen crossed the ground floor. He wanted to shout down to whoever was there, he even had the vague notion of standing and charging back down the staircase at them. Better to fight his way out past whoever was down there than to be…

  Killer…

  He felt as if he was sleepwalking through a dream, a dream just outside another dream, and now the snow falling was not snow but a thickening mist that was coming out of his own eyes, and he was watching his own self as he sat there at the top of the third floor staircase, legs dangling, feet idly knocking together, hands tightening against the bannister. Behind him he could see THE PARTY LOVES YOU scratched into the wall, yet he wasn’t really seeing it at all as his back was to it. Yet somehow he could see the definition of the letters well enough to know a knife had made them, and that dried blood had started to paint them in. He leaned over the bannisters of the staircase, over his own head and that stupid, childish mop of straw-coloured hair, and he watched the shadows stretching, cresting the ceiling, and he wanted to see those people, to look them in the eye and know that they were afraid of him, and then, when they quaked in fear at his feet he would kill them.

  ‘No. I’m not a killer.’

  Don’t fight me. You can’t fight me. Don’t fight what you are.

  ‘I’m not a killer.’

  Don’t feel shame at your bloodlust, boy. I can smell the anger and the aggression in you. Little boy. Stupid little boy. I should have known. Silence can see it in you too. He is scared of you. Scared of a stupid little boy. Don’t fight me. Don’t fight us. We are friends.

  ‘I have friends.’

  They aren’t your friends.

  ‘They will come for me.’

  And what would they do for you?

  ‘They won’t leave me.’

  No one is coming…

  ‘I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone.’

  You have me. We’re great friends. You don’t need anyone else. I will never leave you. Killer. Give yourself to me and then this will all be over soon. Kill. Killer. Kill. You and me.

  ‘My aunt…’

  She has left you. She doesn’t love you. She is scared of you. They have all left you. They don’t understand you. I do. We are the same. Killer.

  ‘Mia?’

  It was her shadow that was growing up the walls of the stairwell. He knew it. He could hear her boots scuffing along the floor, the steady click-click of Blarney’s nails alongside, and the sound was as beautiful as the sweetest of music. Yet it was too far away. He was too far away. He was screaming down through the stairwell for her to find him, but there was no sound to hear, because he wasn’t really standing there after all, and he wasn’t really seeing her or hearing her. Whatever was sat there, legs dangling, feet knocking, hands gripping, it wasn’t him. It sounded like him, even looked like him after a fashion, but it was someone else altogether, and now it was rolling back and pulling its legs from between the splintering wood, and its body was more disjointed than it should have been, and its neck, just for a moment, was wider than its head.

  ‘I’m not frightened of you.’

  Of course you’re not. You’re a killer.

  The thing that looked like Sam flipped over onto all fours, moved over the discarded machine gun on the floor, and slowly began to crawl down the staircase.

  What did you ask Father Christmas for, Samuel?

  I asked not to be alone any more. I asked for things to be different.

  And what did he say?

  He just laughed. And it was a horrid laugh.

  The mist became snow again and it fell in great sheets, building up around him, holding him, brilliant white slowly giving way to the deepest black.

  Killer…

  6

  Things crunched under her boots – little bits of concrete, shards of glass, and other things that were softer and gave no sound as her feet pressed down on them – and cobwebs tickled against her face and the bare skin of her left arm. The darkness in the first floor corridor was a grubby, uneven, patchwork of greys and blacks, and the stuffy smell of dust and decay and age was almost as stifling as the humid air. Only as she passed the stairwell, spiralling up into the high above, did she see any suggestion of the security light outside. About four floors up the light cut across the stairwell, shining through one window, and then out over the landing, and shapes and patterns, all ugly and distorted played across the ceiling. She thought she saw movement on the floor below the light, somewhere up in the dark throat of the stairwell, but didn’t pause to confirm her suspicions.

  Doors came at irregular intervals either side of her; some partially open, most firmly shut, and she convinced herself each time that she could sense something beyond. Someone. She knew she could hear rats somewhere deeper in the heart of the building, and she knew
Blarney could sense them too. Her faithful friend was weaving back and forth in front of her, his nose to the ground, ears and tail up in the air.

  Singer? I’m here. You’ve got me here. What do I do?

  Mia didn’t have the first idea where to go. She turned corner after corner, shuffling along corridors that looked identical to each other, and nothing presented itself to her, no answer or idea. Blarney seemed less indecisive and continued his hunt. It was as good an idea to follow her dog as anything else, Mia decided, and let him take the lead.

  The floor started to smooth out and then dip as if it were a ramp. There was a small creaking sound under her feet as boots moved from concrete to wood. She kicked something and it rattled and rolled and then smashed against the wall.

  Mia gave a small whistle. ‘Blarney, to me. Come here,’ she whispered.

  Blarney was at her side instantly, nudging her legs with his nose. Mia leant down in the darkness, ran a hand over his fur and then scratched him under the ears. Moving on, the end of the sloping floor gave way to a giant metal door that wouldn’t open. To her right a new path started, narrower than the last, and even darker still. It was just wide enough for them to walk down, and Mia led the way, tapping her right leg from time to time to signal Blarney to keep close. This time she knew she could hear something. There were voices.

  Singer?

  At first they seemed to be coming from the walls, and at each doorway they passed Mia tensed, waiting for someone to jump out on her. The pistol felt good in her grip, worryingly good. Further along the corridor the voices seemed to shift and then they were coming up through the floor – muffled talking, a stifled shout, something that could have been a scream. Mia pulled Blarney into an open doorway and shuffled down to his side. There was a giant tongue in her ear straight away as paws pressed down on her shoulders.

  ‘Stop that,’ she muttered and moved him away.

  Mia scrunched herself low, trying to piece together the voices, and target the source. Almost instantly they stopped. Mia got down on all fours, something Blarney thought great fun and a signal for a game, and pressed an ear to the floor.

  ‘We need to go down a level,’ she said, as much to herself as to her dog. Blarney was down on the floor with her, his toy rabbit discarded for the moment, his snout pushing at her arm, the bushy beard tickling her skin as the tongue once again flopped out of his mouth and smothered his owner in bad breath kisses. The voices came again. Shouting. Two people were trading insults and abuse, their anger coming up through the floor, directly underneath Mia and Blarney.

  ‘We need to…’

  A low growl suddenly cut her off. Blarney’s stumpy tail was now brushing against her arm. Her dog was turning around and looking back into the room where they had stopped. Mia felt goose bumps break on her skin. There was something behind her in the darkness. Slowly she raised herself from the ground and craned her head back. Blarney was in attack stance, his right paw raised from the ground. Mia raised her right hand and took up the pistol as she slowly swung herself around onto her haunches and faced the room.

  Singer? Talk to me…

  At first she saw nothing, her eyes working through darkness that seemed twice as thick and unyielding as that in the corridor, but then slowly a shape started to form across the room. Blarney took a small step forward, his right paw lowering as his left rose up slowly. Mia took hold of his tail and tugged lightly as her right hand moved the pistol out before her. Her hand trembled, her thumb heavy as a rock as it drew back the hammer. The shape was human, it was unmistakable, and she could see a head, shoulders, and the start of arms. Someone was standing at the back of the room looking at her.

  ‘Thinwater?’ The shape remained motionless, staring. Blarney tensed to attack but Mia tugged his tail and held him back. ‘I’ve got a gun on you, one move in my direction and I will shoot you. Got that?’ The voices beneath her had stopped again and the silence that took their place was foreboding. ‘I’m looking…’ she swallowed the words she was going to say. “Hi, I’m looking for a man named Audley Thinwater in this deserted mental asylum. Would that be you perchance? Could you step out of the room so I can kill you? Thanks ever so.” Mia coughed, and blinked away the salty sting of sweat. ‘I’m looking for Audley Thinwater. My name is…’

  Light suddenly flashed in the corner of her left eye and somewhere in the distance a heavy foot crunched over glass. Mia swayed backwards in surprise and then fumbled against the doorframe as she spun her head around. A light had come on in a room further along the corridor and a shadow was dancing through the rectangular light spill. Mia tilted forward, pushed into Blarney and then rolled over with him, further into the room, pushing her way across the floor, wildly jerking canine and all, until they were both scrunched up behind the door.

  ‘Stop it, stop wriggling,’ she whispered straight into Blarney’s ear. Mia waved the pistol in front of her, as her eyes searched out the motionless shape in their room once again. Outside, in the corridor, boots continued to sound a path toward her, a firm but unhurried walk. Through the gap between the door hinges, a slither of dirty yellow broke as another light in another room further down the corridor was switched on. ‘Blarney, no, stop moving,’ she wrapped her wounded arm around her dog to hold him still. The slit of light was gone almost as quickly as it came, and now the footsteps were drawing nearer. The shape across the room had grown out of the darkness again, and from her new position behind the door Mia could see that it was not alone. Something was standing next to it. Another human.

  Whistling. Whoever was out in the corridor, heading their way, they were whistling, and it was a shrill and ugly sound. Mia heard the soles of boots scuff against the ground, and then something was kicked against another door. The whistling stopped and became a cough, and then the cough became a great hacking spit. The footsteps drew up in the doorway. Someone was standing on the other side of the door. They were so close Mia could hear them breathing. She took the pistol from the shape across the room and angled it towards the door. In her hold Blarney had calmed but she could feel the beard twitching against her skin. Her dog was ready even if she wasn’t. Mia held her breath and waited for the person to move off, but they didn’t seem in any hurry. Go…go…go…she silently pleaded to the person on the other side of the door, and then everything suddenly felt heavy – the gun in her hand, Blarney against her chest, her held breath, her body, even the sweat trickling over her face, and at the moment the light in the room was switched on, a hundred old injuries were singing their displeasure in chorus.

  A scream bloomed inside her as the shapes in the room were finally revealed under the dull glow from a rotten, insect-infested, strip-light – three figures, bloodied and battered and broken, hung lifelessly from ropes feeding through giant metal hooks bolted into the ceiling.

  Mia’s held breath escaped in one great gasp, loud enough for her to hear it echoing back at her. She had just enough time to feel Blarney wriggle free from her weakening grasp, before the door was swung back roughly into her face, and darkness came again.

  7

  The sad face was waiting for her in this new darkness. It was always waiting for her. She dreamed of him, thought of him, and needed to know what had happened to him. Now here he was again. He had infested her mind. At least the idea of him had. She had left him at Bleeker Hill and the guilt was unbearable. Sullivan. The stranger who had shown her kindness and helped her escape the evil of that place. She had left him there. Left him to the mercy of The Party and all those other evils, those unspeakable horrors that Milo Singer had brought to life in front of her eyes.

  Singer…

  Here she was swimming just at the surface of consciousness, not allowing herself to be dragged under, and images tumbled through her mind – she was suddenly retracing her steps in Darkshines asylum, yet that myriad of corridors, all identical, all leading back to where they started, were actually the terrifying maze of Bleeker Hill. The open doors revealed the hideous practice of The Was
h, and those voices that were coming from somewhere down below were the screams of her father.

  Such a sad face he had. Sullivan.

  I’m sorry.

  There had been times on the road, quiet moments of contemplation afforded her between the harshness of her reality, where she had considered that she should return there, to that place, and to Sullivan. To what ends she could never say – she stood no chance of getting him out of there, she couldn’t go up against The Party, and they were very much the lesser of two great evils at Bleeker Hill. But maybe she just needed to try? Perhaps this guilt would go if she just tried? That was if he were even still alive, of course, and she was by no means convinced The Party would have welcomed him with open arms.

  Yet here that impossibly sad face was, still there in her mind.

  Guilt could kill you in this new world.

  ‘Look at me, girl!’ The voice was tired and raspy. ‘Sit up and look at me!’

  Mia’s eyes opened on the ceiling, an off-white space of peeling paint with clusters of cobwebs in each corner. She tilted her head and caught sight of the strip light, little black twitches against the fading glow as insects jerked and danced around in their cage. There were hooks bolted into the ceiling and ropes hanging from them, and then, moving herself forward gingerly, her face brushed against something swinging idly next to her. It took her a few moments to realise it was a leg. Everything started to swim back at her then, a giant wave of understanding rising up and carrying her memories with it, then smashing and crashing down, discarding them scattershot in her mind like a jumble of jigsaw pieces.