A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘Course you do.’

  The American turned and reached for his rucksack; he put it down next to Patrick’s pinioned arm and unzipped the front pocket. Inside Patrick saw a mobile phone and next to that, something bright – a mirror or … Dan pulled out the thick-handled hunting knife and held it close to his face, allowing him a good look. ‘I enjoy using this thing, bud. Don’t give me the excuse.’

  Patrick nodded slowly. He was scared. Terrified. His mouth was moving again and Dan removed his hand so he could speak. At first it was just sounds and bubbles of spit.

  ‘C’mon Patrick. Where is it?’

  ‘It’s … it’s in my kitbag. In the cupboard …’ He nodded to his right. ‘… behind me.’

  Dan glanced at the cupboard.

  ‘I’m going to let you up. You get up slow, get the bag and the memory stick and you throw it over to me. Do it wrong and I’ll cut your throat, so try and do it right.’

  He leant back and stood, releasing Patrick’s aching arms. The American took a couple of steps backwards, his eyes on Patrick all the time and the knife still there in his right hand. They were back where they’d started, Dan Staples staring down at Patrick who was still lying on his back, trying to catch a full breath, his face a bloodied mess. ‘Go on, roll over there and get it.’

  Patrick pushed himself up onto his side, then his knees and crawled to the cupboard. He slid the door open, pulled his kitbag out and reached around inside – it was in here somewhere, he was sure. Eventually his hand found the plastic memory stick. He turned and held it up for the American to see.

  ‘Good job buddy. Now just toss it this way and we’re done.’

  Patrick glanced at the memory stick, then tossed it to Dan. It landed at his feet. He was just about to reach down and pick it up when a soft clicking sound stopped him. He stood very still. It was a familiar, but not instantly recognisable sound. Both men had heard it and both figured out what it was at exactly the same moment – they looked over towards the bedroom door, just in time to watch it being pushed open, followed by William Carver, who came charging in holding a fire extinguisher in his hands like a battering ram. He rammed it into Dan, hard enough to knock the knife from the repairman’s hand, but not hard enough to floor him. A mad scramble followed, with Carver throwing the fire extinguisher at Dan’s head, missing and then crawling around on the floor looking for the knife. He had one hand on the black rubber handle when Dan’s right boot connected with his head and sent him flying back against the cupboard. The impact cracked the sliding wooden door cleanly down the middle and Carver fell sideways onto the carpet. Patrick was on his feet now – bloodied but no longer bowed. He moved in Dan’s direction, hands held up in front of him in a boxer’s pose, but when the American stooped and picked the hunting knife back up off the floor, the sight of it stopped Patrick in his tracks.

  ‘Smart decision.’

  Patrick lifted his hands in surrender.

  ‘You’ve got the memory stick. Please go.’

  ‘I’m going to go bud, real soon. But you see …’ He picked up his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder. ‘… the memory stick’s a pass. Your friend here …’ He pointed down at William. ‘… he’s a merit mark. I gotta say a proper goodbye.’ He turned the knife sideways.

  ‘No! Get the fuck away from him.’

  Patrick ran at the American, grabbing for his arms and wrestling him away from William and back towards the wall. There were noises now outside in the corridor – voices and now a loud knocking on the door. Dan punched Patrick a couple of times in the stomach then pushed him, almost lifting him backwards onto the bed. The door to the room opened from the outside and there was grey-haired Anthony and a couple of more formidable-looking members of hotel security. Dan barged past them, reshouldering his backpack and then running, down the hotel corridor and out through the emergency exit towards the stairs. One of the young security guards threw down his hat and set off after him.

  98 Lessons

  HIGHBURY FIELDS, LONDON

  Upstairs in her and Patrick’s flat, Rebecca snipped the latch down and pulled the chain across. She walked into the living room, switching on the main light and both the lamps as well. She shuffled out of her coat and chucked that and her brown satchel onto the sofa. Then she stopped and listened. There was nothing to hear – nothing apart from the usual street sounds from outside; the buzz of the fridge in the small kitchen. She walked through to the bedroom and turned all the lights on in there too. She took off her cardigan and opened the clothes cupboard. A shoebox of old letters and photos fell from the top shelf and Rebecca jumped.

  ‘Pull yourself together woman. Flipping heck.’ She put the box back on the top shelf, hung her cardigan on a hanger and closed the cupboard door.

  In the kitchen, she found the pasta and put a pan of water on the hob to boil. She switched the radio on with the volume turned down low. Then stopped and switched it off again.

  The sound had come from outside, in the hall – footsteps, on the stairs up to their flat or maybe the half landing below that. But footsteps; she was sure. It could be the downstairs neighbour, Vera, coming to ask for something, that happened now and then. But if she was coming, why hadn’t she knocked? Rebecca walked tentatively to the front door, still listening. She checked the latch was down and then the chain as well. She put her ear to the door.

  Someone was there. Just outside; waiting. Patrick’s cricket bat was propped beside the door. The sum total of their home security system. Rebecca noticed that she was standing with both hands covering her stomach; she removed them and picked up the cricket bat.

  It seemed like minutes but most likely it was only seconds that she was standing there. Then, suddenly the light outside in the hall clicked on. Rebecca was sure there was someone right outside her door. There was a shout from downstairs, she recognised Vera’s voice.

  ‘Hey you! Matey boy. I can see you up there. What d’you want?’

  There was a sound of shuffling.

  ‘Wrong flat.’

  The light on the landing clicked off. Then on again.

  ‘Bloody light. Wrong flat my arse. Douglas! Call the police. It’s that dickhead I’ve seen hanging around by the Fields. He’s outside Rebecca and Patrick’s place.’

  Rebecca heard a muttered oath and then the loud sound of feet running down the stairs. She unlocked and unchained the door, opening it in time to see a flash of navy-blue jacket and a crop-haired head two flights down. Vera was standing in her doorway, her five-foot five-inch husband Douglas at her side. She glanced up.

  ‘Oh you’re in? I thought you was still out. Are you okay?’

  Rebecca nodded. She was as white as a sheet.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Did you see him? Little toe rag. Don’t worry, he won’t be back – he wouldn’t dare – Dougie here would kick the shit out of him.’ She paused. ‘Here Beccy, you’re looking like you’ve seen a ghost. How about you pop down here for a mug of sugary tea?’

  Rebecca smiled. She went to switch the hob off and fetch her keys.

  99 The Lift

  THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG

  Carver regained consciousness pretty quickly. Looking up, he saw legs. Anthony and another hotel security guard were standing in front of the double bed and in between them William saw a pair of bare feet. He tried to stand.

  ‘Patrick, is that you?’

  ‘Hey William, yeah. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘What happened? He got away? Bollocks. I thought maybe we had him there.’ He got to his feet, his head hurt. ‘How’re you doing?’

  Patrick was lying diagonally across the double bed. He lifted his head and attempted a smile.

  ‘Not great I don’t think William.’ His skin was ashen, his nose broken and bloodied. Carver looked first at the state of Patrick’s face and then down at what Anthony and the other s
ecurity guard were staring at – his stomach.

  Patrick had his hands cupped together, holding something. Carver moved closer. The black-handled hunting knife was buried in his gut. Patrick’s dark T-shirt and boxer shorts were wet with blood.

  ‘What the hell? We need a doctor, a paramedic.’ He glared at Anthony. ‘What are you two idiots doing just standing there?’

  ‘The ambulance is on its way, sir, the doctor will come.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  William shook his head.

  ‘Fuck that.’ He pushed the two men aside. ‘Patrick, we need to get you downstairs, we need to be there as soon as the ambulance arrives. Put your arm around me.’

  Patrick looked up at William.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Carver nodded. He glanced again at Patrick’s bloodied clothing; he was losing too much blood, too quickly

  ‘I’m sure. We can’t wait here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Carver lifted Patrick up from the bed, he didn’t know where the strength to do this came from, but it came. He walked him down the short hall towards the bedroom door and pulled it open with his free hand. Anthony and the other security guard followed, but at a respectable distance. Carver and Patrick set off together down the long corridor, moving slowly but steadily in the direction of the lift.

  ‘You’re doing great Patrick, this is good. You’re going to be fine. The ambulance is nearly here, we’re going to meet them downstairs, it’ll be quicker. They’re going to patch you up.’ They were at the lifts. Carver pressed the button and the lift came. The doors opened and they half-walked, half-stumbled in. Patrick’s face was contorted with pain.

  ‘Can we sit down again William? I really need to sit, just for a moment?’

  ‘Sure, we can sit. Just for a minute.’

  William leant forward and pressed the button for the lobby and then he dragged Patrick backwards until both their backs were against the mirrored wall. Together they shuffled slowly down and sat.

  ‘William?’

  Carver was looking at the knife. The blood on Patrick’s legs.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I got his phone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dan Staples’ phone, I stole it out of his bag. It’s under the bed.’

  ‘That’s great Patrick. That’ll be … really helpful. We’ll get to that as soon as we’ve fixed you up.’

  ‘Good. And the memory stick … the real memory stick – it’s in the curtain. It was the first thing I did. Like you taught me. You remember?’ His eyes were wet.

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘William … I’m scared.’

  ‘Don’t be scared. I’ve got you …’ He pulled Patrick’s arm closer to his and held it tighter. ‘… we’re nearly there, you’re going to be okay.’

  Patrick was slipping forward. Carver pulled him gently back; the floor of the lift was sticky with blood.

  ‘Tell her I wasn’t scared William.’

  ‘You can tell her yourself.’

  ‘Tell her I love her.’

  ‘She knows you love her Patrick. She really knows that.’

  The lift arrived in the lobby and the doors opened. Carver lifted Patrick up, carried him to a nearby sofa and laid him down. He could hear sirens, the ambulance was coming. It would be here soon.

  100 Foundations

  SANTIAGO, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA

  The rain fell. It came down so hard that every drop that hit uncovered skin hurt. A needle prick of pain. The tiny hairline cracks in the dam wall were slowly growing wider. Thin trickles of water leaked and dribbled from these cracks, zigzagging down the wall. Trickles turned to rivulets and the cracks grew wider still.

  No one was sure why all the waste material inside a tailings dam – the mud, poisonous metals and slurry that had solidified over time and seemed completely secure – could, without warning, suddenly liquefy. Maybe the rain was to blame? A little too much rain. Or a minor, almost imperceptible earthquake that had shaken the dam’s foundations? Whatever it was, it was happening now. The cracks grew wider, the dam wall could not hold and so it broke, section by section and from behind it came a huge tide of liquid mud.

  This dark tide moved slowly at first but picked up speed with every moment that passed. It crashed through the company canteen and plant offices first, crushing the buildings as though they were made of matchsticks and burying almost forty men alive – before the alarm had even sounded. As the tide moved on down the valley, towards Brochu, it lifted cars and cows and goats up, then dragged them under. The alarm was sounding now, but too late for most who heard it. Soledad saw families trying to run, a mother piling her two small children into the back of an old car and frantically attempting to start the motor. Just in the nick of time the engine sparked into life, the car moved and was accelerating but not fast enough – the woman could see the wave of sludge in her rear-view mirror and then it was on top of them. Soledad heard the sound of children screaming. And then silence.

  The wave was growing in strength and size and now she saw, in the distance, her own family. They were running. Her mother was being pulled and lifted by the boys while at their back, the wall of waste crushed one breeze block and tin-roofed house after another. Her mother was mouthing something. Soledad strained her eyes to see. Her mother was praying – prayers for her soul, for her brothers’ souls. A prayer too for her daughter.

  Soledad woke. Her face was wet with sweat. She was trembling. She looked around.

  The central Santiago bus station was busy, even at this ungodly hour of the morning. Many of her fellow Chileans were trying to do the same as her – catch some sleep – either stretched out on one of the plastic three-seater benches or curled up in a corner or next to one of the vending machines. She stood and rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to wipe the nightmare away. But it wouldn’t work. The dreams were getting worse, but at least now she knew what she had to do to stop them. The only way was to stop running. Stop hiding. She glanced at her watch. The bus back in the direction of Brochu was leaving in two hours. Soledad didn’t want to sleep any more. She hoisted her rucksack up on to her shoulder and went to find a cup of coffee.

  101 The Right Thing

  THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG

  Carver avoided the hotel bars, preferring to stay in the room that the management had provided him. It was on the same floor as the room that he and Patrick had shared and which was now sealed up and decorated with a zigzag of thick yellow police tape. A kindly policeman had asked William to confirm that the room had not been disturbed since the attack had taken place and Carver had simply nodded. He’d gone back to the room only briefly and disturbed almost nothing. He would have preferred to have accompanied Patrick to the hospital, to have ridden with him in the ambulance. But his friend had made it clear he did not want that. It was more important that he retrieve Dan Staples’ phone from beneath the bed and the memory stick that Patrick had tucked into the hem of the curtain. So that was what William did.

  He’d spent the last twenty-four hours trying to work out what to do next. He’d made one decision, not a decision he was particularly happy with, but which, on balance, felt like the right thing to do. The room phone rang and he answered.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘A Mr Eric Fung is here Mr Carver.’ It was the hotel manager speaking. ‘He says you’re expecting him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  It was ten minutes before Eric tapped lightly on the door. When William opened it, he was cleaning his glasses on the bottom of his T-shirt, a drenched-looking anorak slung over his shoulder.

  He squinted at William.

  ‘You have quite a lot of security.’

  ‘Yeah. The police wouldn’t let me stay where I wanted to stay. They insisted I have a bloody police guard here at the hotel as well.’

  ‘It’s probably wise. Also … it means there are fewer policemen available to beat up students on the Harcou
rt Road.’

  Carver shrugged.

  ‘From what I hear, you were giving as good as you got.’

  ‘That’s incorrect.’

  ‘Whatever. You better come in.’

  Best that he do what he’d decided to do quickly – before he changed his mind. He ushered the kid in and offered him the only chair in the room while he took a seat on the bed, alongside his open laptop.

  ‘I want to offer you something …’ He took a white memory stick from his pocket, and after checking that his machine was not connected to the internet, plugged it into the side of the laptop. ‘… these are the interviews that Patrick collected. The stuff he talked to you about.’ Eric nodded. ‘If you’d want, I can open the file up on my machine, lend you some headphones and you can sit there and listen to these.’

  Eric was, briefly, speechless.

  ‘I would certainly like to do that. I am not sure what to say … thank you.’

  Carver shook his head.

  ‘Don’t thank me. I’m still not sure this is a good idea at all.’

  ‘Then why …’

  ‘Patrick talked about your friend Sammy and putting a little weight on the other side of the scale. I think he’d want you to have a chance to hear these. That’s the only reason I’m doing this.’

  ‘Then I thank Patrick.’

  ‘Fine.’ He stood up. ‘Here you go …’ Carver placed the laptop on the desk, handed Eric some headphones, opened the file and pressed play.

  It took Eric over two hours to listen to all the interviews. As he listened he made notes in the dog-eared school exercise book he carried around with him. He filled several pages. While he did this, Carver first stood at the window and watched the ferries crossing to and fro from Kowloon, then lay on the bed and dozed. When Eric finished he shook Carver’s foot to wake him.

  ‘I’ve listened to everything.’

  ‘Fine, good.’ He paused. ‘I’ll say goodbye then.’

  Eric paused.