by Sam Millar
“What a fucking dump,” said Benson, pulling up at the main gate of the Graham building. “Shitty looking during the day, but at night it looks even more fucked up. Are you sure you can’t wait until the morning?”
But Jack was already exiting the car, his torch smearing the darkness with its chalky beam. A large chain coiled itself tightly against the ornate gates, laughingly preventing intruders from entering. A lock, the size of an apple, was intertwined with the chain. It looked impressive, the security—though not to Jack.
“I know,” quipped Benson, as if reading Jack’s thoughts. “All you have to do is go to the back wall and fall through to the fucking basement, just like Charlie Stanton.”
Benson removed a key from his pocket, and, within seconds, the coil of chain fell to the ground, noisily.
“Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” asked Benson as both men walked up the winding, dilapidated path leading to the front entrance.
“In all honesty, Harry? Nothing. Perhaps I’m just clutching at straws. I’ve covered ever single place where Adrian could be, and when I heard that the homeless man was trying to find shelter in this godforsaken place, well …”
They entered through the hall of the building, the torches’ powerful beams guiding them.
“Careful,” advised Benson. “The place is riddled with woodworm. I almost went through one of the fucking floors, yesterday. Scared the shit out of myself. And that was with plenty of light.”
In the breathing darkness, the sprawling nature of the empty building came together in a rush, like two hands cupping. The building reeked of rotten cabbage. The pong was overpowering, with a constant curious stench, like a sprawling slum district under threat of a deluge of open sewage.
“This is where old Charlie found the praying fruit,” announced Benson, as they entered the one-time laundry room. “Forensics did their usual stellar job of finding sweet fuck all. Though to be fair to that lazy bunch of bastards, I’ve a sneaking suspicion that Citizen Charlie went through any clothing in the room, destroying and stealing what he could. He didn’t strike me as an upstanding member of the community, old Charlie.”
“You shouldn’t assume the victim was gay,” said Jack, trying not to allow Benson’s homophobia to irritate him.
“A big fucking dildo up his arse and he wasn’t a fruit? What was he doing, then? Clearing the wax from his ears?”
Exiting the laundry room, they turned left, into the main dormitory. It was completely bare of all contents, with the exception of tiny piles of excrement camped throughout the enormous room.
“Nice, eh? The biggest shit hole in town,” smirked Benson. “Who said homeless people weren’t house-trained? What a fucking stench.”
Despondency was seeping into Jack as each room revealed nothing. The old building was deeply depressing. He had witnessed the inside of prisons more homely than this and wondered what it had been like for the children forced to reside here.
“Had enough of the magical mystery tour?” asked Benson. “If we stay any longer, it’ll be daylight, and you really don’t want to see this place in all its glory. Trust me on that.”
“I just want to check out the last couple of rooms. Then that’s the end of it. It was good to get it out of my system, Harry, even if we found nothing.”
Benson nodded, and removed a cigarette and lighter from his pocket.
“Want one?” offered Benson.
“No, not right now. I want to check the rooms out first.”
“You don’t mind if I stop for a smoke? I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.” Benson rolled the lighter’s wheel. It failed to spark. “I don’t believe this shit.”
“Here,” Jack handed him a box of matches. “Keep them.”
Proceeding down the corridor, Jack turned left into a large room, the words “Control Room” stencilled above the entrance. Like every other room, it was practically bare, as if swarms of human locusts had ascended, stripping it of everything but a few withered posters and pages attached to the walls, and an old rusted bed frame securely bolted to the floor.
A wry smile appeared on Jack’s face. “They’ll steal everything unless it’s bolted down.”
“Control Room keys must never be carried outside the Control Room” stated one of the dusty pages. “Failure in this regard will result in disciplinary action.”
Someone had scribbled something directly beneath the order. Jack could make out the words “fuck off” and “wanker”, but the rest of the rebellious wording was illegible.
Directing the beam of light over the rest of the walls, Jack concentrated it on scribbles of handwriting, hoping to recognise the writing or perhaps a coded message. A couple of times, the beam faded, and he cursed himself for not having checked the batteries in his haste to get to this monstrosity of a building.
“Don’t go dead on me, now,” he whispered, just as the batteries did just that. “Damn it!” The room was plunged into a choking darkness and, for some inexplicable reason, Jack suddenly felt vulnerable, like a child lost in a haunted house.
Quickly stabbing his hand into his pockets, he frantically searched for his matches, before remembering.
“Harry!” he shouted, feeling puerile, disorientated. “Harry!”
“What?” responded Benson’s echoing voice. “What the fuck is it now?”
“Light! I need some light! Battery is dead!”
Even from the distance, Jack could hear Benson mumbling about not even being able to have a smoke in peace.
“Where are you?” shouted Benson, walking down the corridor. “Which fucking room?”
“The control room! Near the very end of the corridor.” Jack’s voice quietened as he heard Benson’s footsteps nearing; saw the beam from his friend’s torch slice through the darkness.
Suddenly, tiny beams of light oozed through the wall, ghostly, like the eyes of dead creatures, landing on Jack’s waist, forming a slithering belt, before disappearing into the night.
“Harry? Harry! I’m in here, next door, in the control room. There’s a sign above the door.”
“Okay, okay, I hear you; but it’s impossible to see any signs,” mumbled Benson, defensively. A few seconds later, he appeared at the door of the control room. “Have you finished playing hide and fucking seek? Can we go now?”
“I want you to go back in, next door, and shine the torch against the wall, just like you did a moment ago.”
“Have you lost it? If you think for one minute that I am going back in there, just to shine the—”
“Stop the moaning, and do as I ask,” hissed Jack, his voice bringing a heavy silence to the room.
Benson glared at his ex-partner before reluctantly complying. “This had better be fucking good, Jack. I’ve had enough of this shit.”
A few seconds later, Jack could hear Benson stomp his way through the adjacent room like a big kid newly chastised by a parent.
Nothing. The control room sat in total darkness. Jack wondered if he had been hallucinating, all the strain and fatigue taking their toll.
Defeated, he shouted in to Benson that it was okay, to forget about it. “It was nothing, Harry, just my tired eyes playing tricks.”
Benson muffled a reply. “I haven’t been able to turn the damned torch on. Didn’t you check the batteries in these—hold on … there! It’s back on! Any luck?”
“Hold it right there, Harry! Hold it right there!” Light was seeping through the wall, like an old movie projector, dust motes dancing on the beams.
Tracing the light, Jack pressed his fingers against the entrance holes, feeling them fitting perfectly against his skin.
“Can you see my fingers, Harry?”
“Of course I can fucking see them. What the hell are you playing at?”
“Don’t move that light. I’m coming in.”
Moving quickly and as carefully as possible, Jack groped the walls for direction, all the way into the next room.
“What’s this all abo
ut?” asked Benson.
“Could be nothing—could be a million things,” replied Jack. “Scan the light along the wall, just where those holes are.”
Benson ran the beam along the wall, slowly, as if removing paint. There were ten holes, in all.
“Okay. The wall has holes. So what? So have I,” said Benson, flippantly.
“Those holes aren’t accidental,” said Jack. “Too evenly distributed, too elaborate.” Brushing his hand along the floor, removing grime and dust, Jack slowly revealed what the years had tried to hide. “Scuff marks … harsh imprints. Probably from chairs.”
Benson shrugged his shoulders. “And?”
“Give me your torch. Look through any of those holes. I’m going next door. Tell me what you see.”
Seconds later, Benson watched the light from the torch reveal the one item of interest to Jack: the bed.
“I still don’t get it,” mumbled Benson, just as Jack made an appearance back in the room.
“Voyeurs.”
“Peeping fucking Toms?” said Benson, spitting out the dust from his mouth. “Are you sure? How can you be certain?”
Jack’s face was bleached white. Even in the smothering darkness, Benson could see that quite clearly. More worrying to Benson was Jack’s lack of response. His ex-partner had said nothing; and in saying nothing, he said everything.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night.”
James Thomson, The City of Dreadful Night
OPENING THE FRONT door of his house, an exhausted Jack almost walked on the small package resting on the carpet in the hall.
His name was typed on the front, but no address. He wondered why anyone would drop it through the letterbox so late at night.
Opening it, he was somewhat puzzled to discover a pair of laced panties, black in colour, moderate in size and expensive to the feel.
“Who on earth would send …?” A photograph fell from the panties, landing beside his feet. “Sarah …?” The photo was of a smiling Sarah, posing adjacent to a painting in the gallery.
Glancing at his watch, Jack decided to call her. It was then that the thought struck him: she was still in Dublin, and wasn’t due back until tomorrow. Perhaps she had simply cut her trip short?
He lifted the receiver and dialled her home, but all he got was her answering machine. Undeterred, he decided to call the hotel in Dublin. “Hello, would it be possible to put me through to Sarah Bryant, please?”
A few seconds later, Sarah’s groggy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Sarah? Jack. Sorry. Did I disturb you? Were you sleeping?”
“Jack …? No, I mean yes, but not to worry, darling. What’s wrong?”
“I know this sounds strange, but did you send me something tonight, wrapped up in a brown package? Got someone to deliver it?”
He could hear her body shift in the bed. She seemed to be getting herself more comfortable.
“Something? What kind of something?”
A cold sensation was beginning to stir in Jack’s stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck moved.
“A pair of lace panties.”
“What? Are you serious?” She laughed. “No, of course not. Why would I do such a thing? I mean, I know I’m a bit of a—”
“Sarah, are you sure? I need you to tell me if it’s a little gag you’re pulling on me? There’s a photo with them. It’s you, standing next to a painting of what looks like a large orange tree with seagulls nesting.”
There was an iron silence from the other end before Sarah spoke. “Doves. Not seagulls. Peace in the Orange Grove, by Paul Thornton. He’s a young artist with a bright future. How … I don’t understand? That photo is in my bedroom, in a drawer.”
The cold sensation had turned to ice in Jack’s stomach.
“It’s probably nothing, just one of your employees messing about, trying to wind us both up.” Jack knew that his reasoning sounded feeble, but there was little he could say to clear up the mystery.
“Should I leave, head home, Jack? I’m due back early tomorrow morning anyway. I can cut my stay short.”
“No, don’t do that. There would be little point to it. As I said, it’s probably nothing.”
“Okay … Jack?”
“Yes?”
“Have you heard anything from Adrian?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m really sorry about what happened, when he walked in on us. That was my fault. All I had to do was phone, instead of showing up at your door like that.”
“It had nothing to do with you,” he lied. “We’ll get him back. Don’t worry. Now, I want you to get some rest. See you tomorrow. Make sure you phone me as soon as you get back from Dublin. Okay?”
“Yes. Goodnight, darling,” said Sarah and the phone went dead.
The visit tonight to the orphanage had unsettled him, physically as well as mentally. He had hoped to get some well-earned rest, as soon as he arrived home, but the mysterious package had put an end to that.
No sooner had he turned to leave the room than the phone screamed. Quickly, he picked up the receiver.
“Sarah?”
Heavy breathing competed with static and dull sounds. “Did you like your little present?”
Jack gently squeezed the button of the tape recorder. He was prepared this time.
“What have you done with my son?”
“You’re wasting valuable time, ex-detective Calvert, just like I wasted valuable time waiting for your whore of a girlfriend in her bedroom tonight. You’re such a hypocrite, pretending to be worrying about your son, pretending to be searching for him. You’re more concerned about fucking the whore, aren’t you?”
Jack squeezed the phone until the knuckles in his hand looked ready for popping. Trying desperately to control his voice, he said, “I love my son more than anything on this—”
“Liar!” hissed the voice. “Such a liar. You tell me one more lie and the phone goes dead—as will your son.”
Breathe easy, he told himself. Good long gulps.
“What … what is it you want from me?”
Snide laughter. “I waited two whole days in that whore’s house, just to give her a surprise. But she failed to show. Is she there with you now, fondling your balls, kissing your cock?”
“No, she isn’t here. She wasn’t here.”
“You’re not lying to me? I don’t like to be lied to.”
“No, I am not lying. I haven’t seen Sarah in days. I thought that was her on the phone, when I picked it up.”
“Did you now? So sorry to disappoint.” More snide laughter. “I’m sure Adrian would love to hear how you’re out fucking instead of searching, you hypocritical bastard.”
A damned noise was banging in his head, making it difficult to hear the tormenting voice clearly. It was the sound of his heart, bang-bang-banging, in his chest.
“Please … please don’t hurt him. Why are you doing this to him? He’s just a child. He didn’t do anything—”
“Please don’t hurt him,” mimicked the voice. “No? Why? You’ve already done that, over and over again, haven’t you?”
Jack’s mouth turned arid. He didn’t reply.
“Haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to rectify that, don’t you?”
He did not reply.
“Don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“What would you do to have Adrian back?”
Jack tried to swallow. “Anything. I’d do anything. Is it money you want? I can get you—”
“I have a little proposition to make. I need you to kill Sarah Bryant,” said the voice, calmly, as if reading a recipe from a list.
“What on earth are—?”
“Shhhh. No interruptions. Pay attention. Time is running out for us all—especially for your son, if you don’t comply.” The voice waited, and, getting no response, said, “Good. That’s mor
e like it. Now, you will use your police skills to kill her—you’re good at that. I will leave the method entirely in your hands.” Laughter. “But it must be painful. She must suffer before she dies. That is imperative. Do you understand?”
“I …”
“Do you understand?” hissed the voice.
“Yes.”
“Good! Cheer up. To listen to your unenthusiastic voice, one would think it was Adrian you’re being asked to kill, not some deserving whore. Now, to help you become more enthusiastic, I will award you points for imaginative techniques used. You need to achieve twenty points—no, make that twenty-one, my favourite number—to free Adrian. The more points you accumulate, the quicker he goes free. Should you fail to reach the designated number—say, within a week—well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.”
The phone went dead.
“Hello? Hello!” shouted Jack, before quickly regaining his composure. He hit a button and asked the voice at the other end, “Did you get it?”
A few seconds of silence. “No, sir … a few more seconds,” said the young police officer’s voice. “That’s all we needed to trace—”
Despondent, Jack slammed the receiver back into its cradle, cracking it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.”
Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
“SARAH TOLD ME that she can’t think of anyone who would wish to harm her,” said Jack, replaying last night’s tape recording for Benson. “She doesn’t recognise the voice on the tape, either.”
“That’s a great help. So informative.” Benson smirked, sipping a cup of coffee at Jack’s kitchen table. “What about a disgruntled artist? We all know how touchy you bastards are. Perhaps Sarah displaying your paintings in the gallery was taken as an affront, filling him with jealousy?”
“I doubt very much if someone would kidnap Adrian just because my paintings were exhibited.”
Benson snorted. “I doubt very much if someone would break into a church and kill the vicar. But hey, guess what? It happened!”
