by Helen Harper
I don’t have to wait for long. I’m leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, when I hear the tell-tale rattle of the inside bar being pushed. I quickly sidestep left to avoid the door hitting me as it opens, but keep myself pressed against the wall so that the secret smoker won’t see me unless they actually turn around. The door swings open noiselessly and a man steps out, cigarette already dangling from his mouth. From this angle, I’m pretty sure it’s one of the security guards. He cups his hands and lights up, not moving from the entrance. I curse inwardly and concentrate on not breathing too loudly. At least this location is fairly central, so there’s a loud hum of traffic to mask any sounds that I make.
I watch his profile intently. He sucks hard on the cigarette, gazing off into the distance, but his feet still don’t move away from the door so there’s no way I can edge behind him and sneak inside. He smokes all the way down to the filter and, just as I’m sure he’s going to do no more than ground the butt into the tarmac with his heel and head straight back inside, he walks forward to the bucket to drop it in. I swiftly tiptoe behind him and duck inside, bolting up the stairs before he comes back in. I can only think that he must have paused to move the bucket back to its original location because I’m already at the second floor, my heart pounding, when I hear the door clang shut. I grin to myself. There’s nothing like a nicotine addict with OCD. Then I bound up to the tenth floor where Tam will be waiting.
The fire exit opens onto the main corridor of Tam’s suite. I know from experience that at this time of day the other investigators will either be out on jobs or in the social room, regaling each other with inflated stories of their mornings’ exploits. Equally, the receptionist will be far too concerned with her phone to pay attention to anything other than the front door. All this means that I only have to sneak past Arzo, Tam’s PA, to get into his office. But Arzo is no push-over like the others and I want a chance to observe Tam before confronting him so, rather than heading directly to his sweeping corner office, I scoot into the ladies’ restroom. It’s time to put my Die Hard Bruce Willis’ skills into action. I’ve always thought it would be possible, considering the entire building is finished with dropped ceilings, but I’ve never actually tried it before. There’s no time like the present.
I hop into one of the cubicles but don’t bother locking the door. I don’t want someone to wander in and wonder why there’s an empty toilet with a locked door. Women with full bladders are neither patient nor good-humoured. Carefully lowering the seat, I step up and onto the cistern then reach up and push aside one of the large ceiling tiles. The space above is dark and filled with pipes which will make it difficult to move around but I am determined.
I curve my fingers round the metal bracket and slowly pull myself upwards, unsure how much of my weight the structure will hold. It creaks and bends slightly but I decide I can make it, so I push my body further up, keeping away from the polystyrene panels where I’ll be sure to fall through. There’s not much space at the top, forcing me to bend my torso down and forwards to shimmy my hips through. It’s a tight squeeze but once they’re past, I wiggle forward so I can pull up my legs. The hardest part is edging backwards so I can replace the tile. Advancing through this space is difficult enough while lying flat on my belly; reversing without being able to see where I’m going is almost impossible. It takes me minutes to manage it and, by the time I’m where I need to be, I’m covered in sweat. Whoever once said that horses sweat, men perspire and women glow clearly hasn’t met me.
I stare down for a moment at the empty restroom and wonder if I’m crazy for doing this. I’m sandwiched between a layer of polystyrene and snaking pipes while looking down on a toilet. From this vantage point, it’s easy to spot where the cleaner has been lax and not bothered to reach round the edges of the bowl. I make a slight face and stiffen my resolve. Just like those weeks of built-up dirt, I’m not going to allow myself, my sanity or my freedom to be simply swept away. As ridiculous as this situation is, I need to find out where I stand with Tam. I push the tile back into its original position then begin my slow shuffle forward.
I barely manage a few feet before I feel the dress snag on something. Damn it. This is another reason I can’t get away with looking pretty while attempting to work at the same time. I eventually untangle the material then tuck the rest of the fabric into my knickers to avoid it happening again. Bruce Willis didn’t have that problem.
Although the straightest and most direct route towards Tam’s office is diagonally across the space, I’m forced to go in a different direction as the pipes are blocking my way. I can only hope that’s not the case once I get further along or this entire venture will be screwed. Inching forward in darkness, I stay as silent as possible. I have to strain to keep my weight balanced on the metal frames and not sag down onto the tiles. The pain of the exertion is attacking my core, as if I’m permanently holding myself in a plank position. At least I won’t have to worry about going to the gym today. It seems like an eternity before I hear the ping of the lift and realise I’ve reached the reception area.
‘Hi, doll-face,’ drawls a deep voice that I immediately recognise as Boris, one of the other investigators.
His weak attempt at flirtation falls flat as Tansy, the receptionist, sighs. ‘Why are you late?’ She sounds bored to tears.
‘Were you worried about me?’
The silence that greets his question pretty much provides an answer. I smirk and am about to continue quietly onwards when I freeze at his next question. His tone is overly casual, which makes it even worse.
‘Is Bo back yet?’
‘Not seen her.’ There’s an odd grating sound.
‘Has she phoned in?’
The sound continues. I finally realise Tansy must be filing her nails. ‘Nah,’ she says. ‘What’s it to you?’
Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait to hear his answer. I’d always pegged him as large and dumb, nothing more than an annoyance, but now my mind is racing at the thought that he might have something to do with all of this.
‘One of my contacts rang me on the way in asking about her. Says the pigs want to talk to her about something that went down this morning.’
I’m disappointed; I’d been hoping for more. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if I could pin the blame for this on Boring Boris and move on. I suppose the confirmation that the police are definitely after me is useful though. I don’t wait to listen to more; instead I shuffle onwards, making sure I’m as quiet as death. Their voices were as clear as if they’d been standing next to me and the last thing I need is for them to realise there’s something crawling around above them.
Fortunately the pipes twist right, allowing me to continue forward to Tam’s office unhindered. Arzo worries me. He’s a canny bastard. I’d swear he has traces of Kakos daemon blood running through his veins were it not for the fact that he’s been with Tam for more than two decades. No Kakos daemon could spend that long in a human’s company without giving into the temptation to eat their heart or drive them insane. Still, I’m fairly certain he’s more triber than human and that I have no hope of being silent enough to pass over his head without him noticing. At least his desk is outside Tam’s office and slightly to the left, so I reckon the pipes will give me just enough leeway to avoid him. The problem is that, thanks to the ceiling tiles, I can’t see down to check; they are so well fitted that there are no cracks or gaps where I can peer down. I know the layout of the office – I’ve sodding worked there for two years after all – but up here in the ceiling, and with an ache developing through my body as I keep myself aloft, I’m becoming more and more disorientated.
I suck air in through my mouth and hold it for a few seconds, attempting to regain my equilibrium. When I finally exhale, I feel more centred. I side shuffle to my right, getting as close to the pipes as I can. It’s just my rotten luck that the one closest to me is carrying hot water. A couple of times the bare skin of my legs lightly brushes it, scalding me. Each t
ime I have to pause and bite the inside of my cheek until the pain subsides. It takes me at least ten minutes to reach the threshold of Tam’s inner sanctum and ease myself over. I can hear the clacking of computer keys and the hum of distant traffic but little else. I grimace. I really need to find a way to see what he’s doing.
At the edge of my small space, where I presume the large window looking out over the city is situated, there’s a tiny chink of light. That might just be enough of a gap to look down from. It’s at least eight feet away and, as I’ve already discovered, moving sideways for any distance is considerably harder than moving forwards. I decide that shifting my body around will cause too much noise so, painful centimetre by centimetre, I edge towards it. I’m about halfway there when there’s a hard knock at the door and I curse inwardly. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold myself in this position.
I hear the door open.
‘Boss?’
I roll my eyes. It’s Boring Boris again. Now that I’ve discounted him from my list of suspects, listening to him is going to be of little help. Unless he has more details about what the police are saying about me, that is. Tam must have beckoned him in because the floor squeaks as if someone is moving forwards.
‘I’m concerned about Bo.’
I’m both surprised and a little touched by this. A trace of guilt about my attitude towards the big man snakes up my spine – but I still really want to hear Tam’s response.
‘What is it?’ His voice is gruff, but I can’t detect any particular emotion in it.
‘The police scanners are after her. There seems to have been some kind of incident at Wiltshore Avenue. You know she had that assignment there with the daemon? Now she’s wanted for questioning.’
Silence. It draws out to an uncomfortable point where I feel my heart begin thrumming faster and faster. What is Tam going to say?
‘I see.’
Damn it. Why does he always have to be so bloody non-committal?
‘I could go out and talk to my contacts. Find out more.’
There’s another long pause. Then Tam speaks again. ‘You do that, Boris. Thank you.’
Tam’s response tells me absolutely nothing. My hands, which are still gripping the criss-cross ceiling frame, tighten. I hear Boris murmur something about leaving straight away, then his footsteps squeak again on their way out. The door closes. If only I could see down to check Tam’s expression. I’m about to start moving again when I hear him lift up his phone and jab in a number. It’s only three digits so he’s calling someone in the office.
‘We have a problem.’ I stiffen at his words. ‘Get in here.’
Tears spring to my eyes and I almost choke. Despite my current precarious position spying on my employer, I hadn’t really believed he was involved. Not deep down.
Shuffling more quickly now, I use the sound of the door opening to mask my own noise and make it over to the ceiling gap. I push myself hard against the wall; if I angle my head just right, I can see into the office. I force down every betrayed, angry and impossibly wounded emotion and blink away the tears. Then I look.
I hiss when I see Arzo’s unmistakable heavyset shoulders. His head begins to tilt and my eyes widen in alarm. Then, just as I’m sure he’s about to stare right at me, there’s a high-pitched scream from somewhere behind him. It lasts barely a second before it’s cut off, as if the screamer had just dropped dead. Arzo whirls around and I see Tam pulling open a drawer to scrabble for the illegal gun he keeps there.
It’s already too late. I watch, horror struck, as something dark and very fast snaps into Arzo’s midsection. He spins around then falls to his knees. Whatever attacked him launches itself at Tam. I register the attacker’s broad shoulders and brown hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, before seeing his flashing fangs sink into Tam’s throat and rip at it with one swift, vicious bite. He pulls away a chunk of bloody flesh. Tam clutches at his neck and gasps a loud, incomprehensible word before falling in slow motion onto the desk.
I raise my hand to punch through the flimsy tile and do whatever I can but then I see Arzo’s large brown eyes staring at me. He shakes his head, mouthing at me. It takes a moment before I realise what he’s trying to say.
No.
Helpless, I gaze down as the life drains out of his body and I try to make sense of what has just happened.
Chapter Five: Knowledge
I stay squeezed in the dropped ceiling until I can no longer bear it. Even though my emotions are numb, every muscle in my body is screeching with pain by the time I yield and shove across the nearest tile so I can drop down into Tam’s blood-spattered office. Any semblance of tears is gone as I take in the scene. The air reeks of dark smoke from the vampire who attacked Tam and Arzo. I try to avert my eyes from their fallen bodies and use my brain to assess what I witnessed and what I’m seeing now. But my gaze drifts to the sickeningly large chunk of flesh lying next to the wall and I swallow hard.
Something catches my peripheral vision and I spin round, shoulders braced and ready for an attack. When I realise it’s Arzo’s chest moving, I rush to his side. He’s unconscious but definitely still alive – a miracle considering what has just happened. But I have no hope of dragging him out in the same way I did with O’Shea a few hours before. Arzo is too large and the whole building is too central for me not to be stopped in mid-stagger. His only chance is to receive immediate medical attention.
I glance back at Tam’s desk and realise he’s fallen across his phone. A dim flicker of logic settles in my brain. I’m in these offices every day so there will be traces of me everywhere for the police to pick up on, but allowing my fingerprints to smear their invisible way across Tam’s corpse would be tantamount to suicide. I step away carefully, avoiding treading in any blood, and pick up the phone on Arzo’s desk, trying to ignore the very visible shake in my hands.
‘999, what’s your emergency?’ asks the cool, collected voice on the other end for the second time today.
I deepen my voice to avoid recognition. ‘There’s been a vampire attack at Dire Straits. Tenth floor of the Artisan Building on Fitch Street. One of the victims is still alive and requires immediate attention.’
‘Can you give me your name and telephone number?’
I drop the phone on the desk, leaving the voice hanging, and prepare to leave, hardening my heart against Arzo’s state to focus on my own precarious chances of survival. If I end up in a police cell because of this and what went down at Wiltshore Avenue, I’ll never find out what is going on and I may end up as a puddle of blood on a floor. Common sense might suggest that I stay and answer any questions as honestly as I can, but my day has been anything but common. And the way things are going, I can’t trust anyone but myself.
I’m forced to pass through the social area. It is a bloodbath and I stare open-mouthed at the chaos that’s been left in the vampire’s wake. At least five of my co-workers are sprawled across the floor. Everywhere I look all I see is red. It appears that the attack happened too quickly for any of them to defend themselves. I shake my head to clear the fog that’s forming there and quickly move out. We’re in the city centre. The police and ambulances will be here soon.
As I move through reception, Tansy’s glazed eyes stare at me with the emptiness of the dead. Her nail file is still clutched in her hand. For some reason this detail is seared into my brain as I open the fire exit and run down the stairs to the ground floor. There’s not a soul in sight, not even a die-hard smoker is out taking a few hasty puffs, so I grab my plastic bag from the skip and leave, just as the sirens begin to scream.
This time I duck into the nearest underground station, keeping my head down to avoid the CCTV cameras. I receive several wide-eyed stares and for a moment I wonder if I’m drenched in blood. When I look down, however, I see that my borrowed dress is still tucked haphazardly into my knickers. I smooth it down, too shocked and numb to feel embarrassed, but I know that my presence here will be remembered. Bugger.
Once I’m safely on the train and rattling back to the outskirts of the city and my grandfather’s house, I squeeze my eyes shut and press my hands against my thighs so hard that it hurts. Of course I was worried after what happened with O’Shea but I was still calm. Now all I feel is a suffocating panic. Nothing makes any sense. Not O’Shea being attacked and left for dead, not me being set up for his apparent murder, not the vicious genocide at Dire Straits. Why a vampire? It obviously wasn’t just because they were hungry. There’s enough fresh blood on tap for any bloodguzzler to drink their fill from a willing victim. It’s a well-known fact that adrenaline and fear make even the sweetest blood taste sour, and vampires prefer to use the many human vampettes who are always lining up to be sucked. Besides, neither O’Shea nor any of my co-workers were tasted. Equally, this can’t be about me; as much as I’d like to believe otherwise, in truth I am a nobody.
I think about Tam’s betrayal. His reaction to Boris’s worries about the police being after me proves he was involved in setting me up. Did he frame me at the behest of someone else who then turned the tables on him? I have no way of knowing. At least the brutality of the attack precludes me from being a suspect. No one would believe a five-foot-one human woman did that. Would they? And why did Arzo tell me to stay hidden instead of try to help?
The police could easily believe that I tried to kill O’Shea. My grandfather may have instinctively known the daemon’s wounds were from a vampire but if I’d been found at the scene with his body tied to a chair with my handcuffs, it’s likely the post mortem would be rushed and I’d be put away for the rest of my life. If things had happened the way the perp had planned though, there’s no way I could be implicated in the office massacre. I wouldn’t even have been there. Now I’m wondering whether, in hindsight, staying at Wiltshore and allowing myself to be arrested might have been the best course of action after all.
