by Huw Thomas
The garden gate.
Harper dropped into a crouch and darted towards the fence, seeking shelter behind another clump of bamboo. The gate opened and two men appeared. They moved softly but with determination towards the back of the apartment. Neither spoke and their heads appeared to flick from side to side as they moved, with predatory steps, into the garden.
Harper stayed as still as he could until they were past. One man reached the little bridge then the second. He rose cautiously, one foot reaching out. A long, surreptitious step. Then another. Still watching the backs of the two men, he began to move steadily towards the gate and escape.
Then the sound of a piano broke the silence. Coming from Harper’s pocket.
His mobile phone.
‘Oh shit!’ Harper began to move only milliseconds after the men at the other end of the garden turned in his direction. He sprinted towards the garden gate, gravel flying through the darkness as he demanded as much speed as his legs could give.
The gate was still open and Harper lunged for the opening. He burst through and began to turn left, in the direction of the street, the phone still ringing in his pocket. But he had only gone a few paces when he became aware of the dark shape moving towards him.
Something hard drove into his midriff and Harper doubled over, all the air in his lungs expelled in a single, agonising rush.
22. Inquisition
Wednesday, 10.53pm:
Harper stared around the room. He was in a gym somewhere but there were no lights on and he had no clue where in the city he was. His arms remained tied behind his back and his body ached abominably.
He had still been bent double, wheezing for breath when the three men slung him into the boot of a car. He was then driven away from the flats to wherever he was now. The journey was not comfortable; it seemed to Harper like the driver was intentionally taking corners as tightly as possible and aiming for every bump or pothole. It would not have been the best of experiences under any circumstances but Harper’s body was hardly in the best state at the beginning of the journey. Now he felt like a tenderised steak, not yet bloody but certainly sore.
When the car stopped, it dawned on Harper he should attempt to leap out and make a run for it but his captors were one step ahead. The boot lid opened to reveal three men standing well back, one to either side and one directly behind the car. The one in the middle held what looked like a baseball bat; all three gave the impression of being quite happy if Harper wanted to try to put up a fight.
Instead, he pulled himself warily out of the car and stood there in the street. A quick glance around revealed nothing more than a damp alley surrounded by dark buildings. An orange glow and the sound of cars behind Harper clearly came from a nearby road but there was nothing else immediately obvious to indicate his location.
Before he could see or do anything else, the men on either side grabbed his arms, pulling them behind his back. They bundled him roughly through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. A couple of minutes later, he found himself sitting in the empty gym, tied to a weights bench. The three men left, turning off the lights as they went and he was alone. Waiting.
Harper had little idea how long he sat in the gym. It seemed like at least an hour but might have been not much more than ten minutes.
Either way, it gave him plenty of time to think. He thought about how much his body hurt now. He pondered the stupidity of hoping to find Van Hulle’s victim. He thought about Rebecca and about the nightmare his life had become. But mostly he wondered what might happen next, who might have grabbed him and why. He also speculated vaguely — without any real hope — whether the men might just forget him and leave him there until the gym’s owners opened up in the morning.
But eventually the door opened.
The lights were not switched back on but enough illumination came through the doorway and a row of small windows for Harper to make out the figures of four men. One stayed by the door, one moved off to a far corner of the room.
The other two walked directly towards Harper.
They stopped a few feet away. Neither looked particularly big but a worm of fear snaked down Harper’s spine, wrapping itself around his heart and sliding its tail into his fluttering guts.
He tried to moisten his lips but his mouth had gone dry. Harper closed his eyes and braced himself.
‘So.’ The single word was spat out. Following it came the beam of a high-powered torch that lanced into Harper’s face from a few feet away. ‘Huh. Don’t look much does he?’
Harper waited, head turned partly to one side, eyes narrowed, the fear now curled up in the hollow emptiness of his stomach.
‘So?’
It was a question this time and Harper tried to force his reluctant mouth to form words in answer. ‘I… was looking for someone.’
‘Who?’ The second question came fast and sharp.
‘A woman. I… thought she lived there.’
‘What woman?’
‘Er … Stacey. Stacey Cole.’
‘Knew her did you?’
‘Not well. I’d… met her once.’ Harper shrugged awkwardly trying not to think too hard of one particular image of Stacey Cole, the woman entombed beneath the Kavanaugh Centre. He never actually met her in the flesh, dead or alive, but he had seen photographs of her in both conditions.
‘So, what were you doin’? Make a habit of climbin’ into your friends’ back gardens do you?’
Harper tried to look up at his inquisitor, squinting against the torch beam. ‘I didn’t know if she was there or not. I’d tried her bell but I didn’t know if she might be in… working.’
He gritted his teeth, unsure who he was dealing with and what they knew about Stacey Cole and her profession. But the man holding the torch just snorted. Harper was unsure whether the sound was one of anger or contempt. He did not really care what his captors thought of him. Just as long as they did not suspect him of something more than what he had actually done.
‘So. Who are you then?’
‘My name’s Harper, Daniel Harper. I’m a reporter for The Post.’ As Harper answered the question an idea began to come to him. He hesitated a moment before squinting up into the light again. ‘I wanted to talk to Stacey about a story I’m working on.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do I know you’re a reporter?’
Harper squirmed against his bonds and gestured to his jacket pocket. ‘Have a look in my wallet. There’s probably something in there with my name on. If you’ve got a copy of the paper you should see my name in there.’
The torch beam flicked slightly as the man holding it gave a nod of his head. The other one of the pair nearest to Harper moved forward and crouched by his side. Harper lifted his arms as best as he could. ‘My inside pocket, it should be in there.’
A hand reached into Harper’s jacket. He could see the man out of the corner of his eye but did not look at him directly. He looked Chinese.
The hand found the wallet and slipped it out. Harper watched as his wallet was opened and the contents rifled through. The man’s hands stopped and pulled a card out.
‘What’s this? NUJ; you’re a union man then?’
Harper gave a faint smile. As far as he knew, he had not been a member. He had been put off joining the union by their history of self-flagellating internal disputes and the fact they rarely seemed to achieve anything; clearly his other self did not feel the same way. He nodded nonetheless. ‘Yeah.’
‘Bit odd though, isn’t it.’
‘What?’
‘Strange time of night to go callin’ on your contacts. Couldn’t you have just phoned her or somethin’?’
Harper looked down. ‘It probably would have been a better idea.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d had a few drinks. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t realise it was quite so late when I got there. I must still have been a bit drunk when I decided to go round the back. You can’t see in the front, I thought maybe if I got into
the garden I could knock on the window.’
‘Not smart.’
Harper smiled ruefully. ‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So who are you?’
The man was silent for a while. ‘Security,’ he said eventually in a voice that was softer but had not lost all of its edge. ‘Let’s just say we’re security.’
The man was silent for a moment, the torch beam lowering slightly. Then he flicked the light straight into Harper’s face again. ‘What were you doin’ last Thursday night?’
Harper blinked. ‘I… er.’
It took him a few moments to work out what day of the week it was now. Working backwards was a lot harder. Last Thursday was less than a week ago but it was literally another lifetime to Harper. As far as he could remember, he had been at home with Rebecca. Home in the flat that no longer existed. Not much of an alibi if that was what he was being asked to provide. He took an educated guess. ‘Down the pub I expect. I’m not exactly sure.’
‘All night?’
‘Probably.’
‘Probably?’
‘I don’t remember that well. I think I’d had a few drinks too many.’
‘Yeah? Bit of a habit is it?’
Harper shrugged and said nothing.
‘What pub?’
Another educated guess: ‘The White Lion, I think. Not sure whether we were there all night though.’
‘With anyone?’
‘Er… I’m not sure. My friend Brendan was probably there.’
‘Know his number?’
‘His number’s programmed into my phone.’ Harper leant sideways as the Chinese man approached again. ‘It’s in my trouser pocket.’
Harper felt his arms being untied. He pulled the phone out and flipped it open. He pulled up Brendan’s number. ‘You want me to call him.’
‘No.’ The man with the torch took the phone from him. He turned and walked over to the third man, the one sitting on the other side of the room. There was a muttered conversation and then Harper heard his phone dialling.
‘Hello. Is that Brendan?’
A pause. Then. ‘Yes and no. Listen, my name’s Glasgow. I’m an inspector with CID. This is an unofficial inquiry at the moment but I need to check where you were last Thursday night.’
Another pause.
‘No, don’t worry. You’re not involved. I’m double-checking something.’
Pause.
‘Take your time.’
A longer pause.
‘The Schooner. All night. Okay.’
Another, longer exchange followed but the man turned away and Harper was unable to hear exactly what was said next. He caught his own name mentioned and the word taxi but that was it. Then the policeman, if that is what he was, walked over. Harper watched him warily. He had met many of the city’s police officers through his job but did not know this one. The name Glasgow was vaguely familiar though. Harper had a vague memory connecting it to some vice investigation of a couple of years ago; an inquiry into illegal gambling dens or something like that.
The man handed Harper back his phone. ‘You drink too much, you know.’
Harper said nothing.
‘You were at The Schooner in Old Street all night. Had to be put in a taxi at midnight and posted home.’
Harper nodded. ‘Sounds about right,’ he muttered, as much to himself as the others.
The third man pointed at Harper as he turned to the one with the torch. ‘I don’t think he’s your one.’
The man with the torch came closer. ‘So, when did you see Stacey last?’
‘It was a month or two ago,’ said Harper. He shrugged. ‘I only met her once but she seemed helpful. I thought maybe she wouldn’t mind talking to me again.’
‘Yeah?’
A fist snaked out of the gloom and cracked into the side of Harper’s face. His head jolted back and bounced sharply off something hard behind him. A trickle of blood crawled down from Harper’s left eyebrow.
‘You’re a fuckin’ peepin’ tom.’
Third Intermission
Silently he sat: regarding his works. The only light came from a skylight two floors above and it was night now. But illumination was unnecessary; the words were in his heart.
The writing began at the top of the stairway, painted across the bare concrete floor and continuing downwards along the walls. It started the process for those brought here. Each phrase a lesson, a clue to redemption for those with something of their soul left to save.
He found it sad that none had so far taken the opportunity on offer. The opportunity for salvation, a chance to make peace with the judge of all judges: it was there for the taking. And yet, steeped so far in sin as they were, the fornicators, the adulterers and the hypocrites, all refused to avail themselves of his mercy, choosing instead to depart with their souls still damned.
Getting to his feet, he followed the stairs down with soft, heavy steps. Almost blind in the darkness, he brushed his fingertips across the painted words to either side. It was like reading Braille but without the bumps; his hands knew the words and absorbed their power through proximity alone.
At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped again. He was on ground level here, although there were no doors or windows to the old building. There was just a small platform before the long drop into the basement. It was too dark now even to make out where the words were written but again the warning was there; he could hardly have made it clearer.
And he always made sure that they entered the pit in the light. He wanted them to see what lay ahead. It was essential to give them a chance to see what was written, an opportunity to realise what corruption brought, a chance to understand where salvation lay. He did not rush them either. They always had time to read the warnings.
He leant out from the platform and inhaled. He waited for the day when he would smell something other than the stench of corruption from below. Waiting for the sweetness of sin confessed, of crimes admitted, of a plea for forgiveness and mercy.
But all that met his nostrils was foul, the scent of whoredom. She had been practically naked when he found her, this one. She had tried to disguise herself, a thin coat to conceal the evidence of depravity beneath. But how many kinds of woman ventured into the dark streets at night wearing just a Jezebel’s raiment beneath her coat? There was only one kind and her crude garb marked her as surely as the foreign tongue in which she muttered feeble protestations when he took her.
From his silent position above, he could hear her moving. They were soft sounds: the rustles of her harlot’s clothing, the sighs of a temptress. She was still for a moment then a faint cry, almost a whimper, rose up from the darkness.
It sounded so innocent, pitiful even, but he knew better. And he would not be dragged down. He would not interfere. The trial was in the heart of each sinner. He gave them the necessary days in which to search inside: the opportunity to look for the tiny kernel of good that might still remain. Find that, admit what they had done and ask for forgiveness, throw themselves on the mercy of the Lord: surely not too much for which to hope.
He breathed out softly, sadly.
He had been busy recently. At first, when he began his work, he lacked the confidence to actively seek those to be reclaimed. The first time was almost an accident and the second practically delivered to him on a plate. Since then he had gradually learnt from experience, getting more proficient in his methods, more efficient in the resolution. Even still, he rarely tried to carry out more than one salvation every few months.
Now, however, his work seemed to be mounting. The tide of filth and depravity showed no sign of abating and he accepted that if he were to truly achieve anything in this battle he would need to work harder.
He had already stepped up his efforts. Already this month one had undergone her ordeal. Then this one arrived. And now a third was confined in a separate pen: only at the beginning of her trial.
He would give the one below a little longer. Then it would be time for her to make the choice. He s
till harboured a faint hope this one might seek the way; initially, despite her clothing, he had even wondered whether her selection was a mistake. She had seemed more submissive than the others: the sin in her eyes less obvious. But she had rejected the book and without it the way led only to damnation not salvation.
He had no illusions about the other: the third one. She was a lost cause. From her foul mouth to her sluttish apparel, it was clear which path she followed. Still, the judgement must be fair; like all the others, she would be given her chance to repent and seek forgiveness and would not be turned away if she chose rightly. Her days may be numbered but she would still have sufficient days in which to make her choice.
In the meantime, he would continue his work, search again and find other lost souls that could be given a final chance to be brought back closer to the Almighty.
As he climbed back up the stairs, he mouthed some of the words written around the walls. Their mantra calmed him, gave strength to his righteousness, guided him on his path to truth and purity.
23. Morning After
Thursday, 8.52am:
Rebecca turned slowly. She levered one unwilling eye open and squinted sideways. She saw a pillow and a slice of unfamiliar room. Consciousness slowly dawned and with it some memory of the night before.
She frowned, started to lift her head, winced and stopped. Sudden movement was not a good idea with a brain that appeared to be floating loose inside a skull lined with jagged points. Her throat rasped and there was a blur to her vision. She closed her eyes and groaned. She had not meant to drink much last night but her good intentions had got lost relatively early on.
A quarter of an hour later she was starting to feel a little more human. A door in the corner of the room revealed a small bathroom. A long drink of cold water from the tap and ten minutes beneath a cool shower helped the revival process greatly. She still felt a little unsteady and nauseous but more capable of movement and thought.
She looked around the room. Now that she was fully awake she could remember Paul Cash leading her along the corridor and steering her gently to the bedroom. Embarrassingly she could also remember her own uncontrollable giggles as the painter endeavoured to move her in a straight line. Getting into the room had been quite a challenge, although Rebecca recalled suddenly feeling more sober when she saw the double bed ahead. But after a kiss on the cheek Cash had left her there alone, surprised and very quickly unconscious.
