by Tom Graham
A girl with an illuminated tray of Lyons ice cream appeared under the screen, while from the speakers came a solemn male voice that sounded like a prime minister announcing to the country that war had been declared: ‘Kia-Ora fruit drink may be purchased in the foyer of this theatre now. Available in orange and lemon flavours.’
Before they could get anywhere near Westworld, there was an absolutely mind-numbing B-feature to endure. It was something about a fisherman with a beard like Captain Birdseye who lived alone in a cabin by an American lake and was trying to catch a trout who had eluded him all his life.
‘The Guv won’t be pleased we’ve come here,’ Sam said as the abysmal short film came to its tedious conclusion. ‘He has major issues with Westworld.’
‘That’s not the only thing he has issues with,’ Annie said. ‘But let’s not think about him, not tonight. Let’s not think about anything. Just the film.’
‘Just the film,’ Sam nodded, and again he squeezed her hand.
There was a pause while people rushed off to the toilet or grabbed last minute provisions from the kiosk in the foyer, and then, after what felt like fifteen hours, Westworld commenced.
Sam knew the story, having seen the film as a teenager late at night on TV. In the near future, wealthy American thrill-seekers visit an elaborate theme park where they can live out their fantasies. In Medievalworld, they play at being knights and ladies; in Romanworld, it’s one big debauch with grapes and togas; and in Westworld, they don Stetsons and chaps and pretend to be cowboys in a frontier town. Nothing is off limits, and everything is guilt free – sex, violence, murder – because the whole park is populated by lifelike robots. The movie’s heroes, enjoying themselves in Westworld, can roll about with robot whores and blaze away at robot gunslingers to their hearts’ content. Nobody gets hurt. It’s all just fantasy.
And then a computer virus ravages the theme park’s control systems. The robots turn nasty and start killing the guests. And the film’s protagonist finds himself remorselessly pursued by Yul Brynner, the blank-eyed android gunslinger whose faulty computer brain has fixated utterly on tracking down and shooting this poor, helpless man.
Sitting in the dark, Sam let his thoughts wander. As the terrified hero of Westworld fled across a bleak desert landscape, the robot Yul Brynner manically on his trail, Sam began to sense a connection between the cinematic events and his own existence. The ‘Westworld’ of the film was a façade, as unreal and phony as the Manchester of 1973 that Sam found himself in. And the man fleeing out across the desert, dressed up as a cowboy but really a city boy to the core, was as every bit out of his own time and place as Sam was.
And then there was Brynner, the killing machine that could not be stopped, marching on and on in pursuit of its victim, deaf to reason, oblivious to mercy, focussed utterly on its single, lethal purpose. The parallels between him and Gould were obvious, and all the more chilling for being so. His own horrible, desperate situation was being enacted up there on the screen. Sam found himself regretting yet again his suggestion to bring Annie here.
As Sam’s mind drifted, half in and half out of the film, he became dimly aware that the image on the cinema screen seemed to have subtly shifted. What had changed? Why did he suddenly feel so unsettled?
In the movie, the hero – a weedy, gawky guy with a horrible moustache, who was still dressed up in his cowboy costume – was running for his life across an arid expanse of desert, the black-hatted gunslinger marching after him. But why had the man’s costume changed? The hat and cowboy clothes had been replaced by a long, dark grey overcoat worn over a sombre suit and tightly-knotted tie. And now that Sam looked, he saw that the man’s moustache had disappeared, and his features had changed completely.
‘McClintock!’ Sam hissed, his voice drowned out by a sudden blast of gunfire from Yul Brynner.
There was blood on McClintock’s face as he ran. The showy waistcoat and shirt were ripped and stained with red. As he staggered and stumbled down a rocky incline, McClintock lurched to a stop and raised up his right hand. Something glinted gold. It was the fob watch that had accompanied him on his transition from fiery death in Gould’s burning garage to a new life in 1973.
Yul Brynner appeared at the head of the incline, silhouetted against the dazzling desert sky. But he, too, had changed. He was shorter, and dressed not in black but in a snappy, grey Nehru suit. His face was obscured by the dazzle of the scorching sun, but Sam knew Clive Gould’s broad, ugly face, his narrow eyes, his thick lips and the jumble of huge, misshapen teeth behind them.
McClintock sank to his knees, and with the last of his strength thrust the fob watch towards Gould. It was a hopeless, pathetic gesture. His hand shook. Without hesitation, Gould came marching down the slope towards him. He reached out, grabbed the watch, and shoved it into McClintock’s mouth. McClintock fell back and lay there as Gould towered over him, a faceless silhouette backlit by a glaring sun. From under his jacket, he produced a long, lethally sharp blade. As the polished steel glinted in the sun, McClintock turned and reached out imploringly with blood-stained hands.
At that very moment, Sam felt a sudden movement beside him. Annie had jumped up from her seat and was rushing back up along the aisle, the beam of the projector flickering and flashing above her head.
Suddenly feeling wide awake once more, Sam went after her. He glanced back at the screen for a moment, but the film was just the film again. The gawky man with the moustache was back on the run across the open desert.
Sam barged through the doors, ran across the foyer, and caught up with Annie outside in the street, beneath the bright lights of the cinema facade. She was blundering about, disorientated, unsure where to go. When Sam approached her, she backed off, her face white as a sheet.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ said Sam. She stared at him, as if at a stranger. Gently, he said: ‘What happened? What did you see back there?’
‘Nothing. I – I … felt … like …’
‘Felt like what?’
‘Like somebody was grabbing me … like there was a hand reaching out and …’
She turned away. When Sam went to her, she shrugged him off.
‘Come home with me,’ he said softly.
She shook her head.
‘Please, Annie. I understand. I do.’
Again, she shook her head.
‘You’re not going mad. Annie, believe me.’
She sniffed heavily. If he could have seen her face, Sam would have seen tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘Annie …’
‘Things aren’t right, Sam.’
‘I know. God, I know! But I can help you. Let’s find somewhere to talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk, I just want to … to go home.’
And without a word, she marched off, making for the taxi rank. Sam watched her go, feeling helpless, silently willing her to stop, or at least glance back at him. But she didn’t.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: LOST AND FOUND IN LOST & FOUND
Alone in his flat that night, Sam had rung Annie’s number four, five, six times. Eventually, she answered.
‘I can’t sleep until I know you’re okay,’ he said.
‘I just need some time to myself,’ she said in a faraway voice. ‘I just … need to think and …’
‘I’m always here, whenever you want me. No matter what, Annie.’
There was a long pause, during which he heard her sniffling. Then, at last, she said: ‘I know, Sam. I’m just so confused and … I have so much to think about. Go to sleep, Sam. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘You sleep too.’
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I won’t get a wink. Goodnight, Sam.’
And with that she put down the receiver.
Sam dug out his emergency bottle of whisky. He needed it. As the harsh booze burned his throat and worked its way down into his intestines like a hot coal, he recalled what he had seen on the cinema screen at the Roxy – McClintock on his knees, bleeding, holding the f
ob watch up hopelessly, as Clive Gould advanced on him in triumph. He recalled McClintock reaching out from the screen, and Annie’s sudden, horrified reaction. She had not seen anything, of that Sam was sure, but she had certainly sensed it.
McClintock promised to try and contact me if he got into trouble, Sam thought, refilling his glass. Was that what happened tonight? Did he go up against Gould – and did things go badly?
If that was so, then nothing now stood between Sam and the Devil in the Dark. He was next on Gould’s to-do list – and after Sam, it left only Annie.
He knocked back his drink, grimaced as it went down, and slopped out another. The only sense of hope he could derive was from his conviction that, as long as he was around, Gould would come for him before he went after Annie. She might be crying alone in her flat tonight, confused and afraid, but she was safe. Safe, at least, for now.
If what happened in the cinema was McClintock’s last, desperate communication, why did it reach Annie instead of me? Was it a mistake? Or did McClintock know what he was doing?
There was no way of answering these questions, so they echoed round and round in Sam's skull, keeping him awake until the wee small hours when, at last, the raw whisky overwhelmed them and smothered him in a brief, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Sam came to CID looking for Annie. But her desk was empty.
‘I sent her on a mission,’ Gene informed him. ‘The Co-Op. Teabags. Bourbons. A pack of panatelas for Uncle Genie.’
‘You bastard, Gene.’
‘A remark spoken out of ignorance, Tyler. I ain’t playing games and I ain’t being cruel. Quite the opposite. I’m acting in your bird’s best interests.’
‘By treating her like the tea girl?’
‘By keeping her busy with things she can actually do,’ Gene snapped. ‘Don’t you pay attention to that lass? She looks like shite.’
‘She’s … got things on her mind,’ said Sam.
‘And the rest. I don’t know what the story is with Cartwright but I do know she’s gone from being a millstone to a fully fledged liability with a face like a slapped khyber. So – I’m keeping her on light duties until I can decide what the hell to do with her. God knows, she’s caused enough aggro already.’
‘Caused aggro? Because she unearthed corruption?’
‘Let’s not go over all that again. Your crumpet’s gone doolally, Tyler, and the last thing I need on my plate right now is doolally crumpet.’ Gene raised himself up and puffed out his chest. ‘I’m getting my department back on track, everyone gainfully employed; Cartwright’s keeping us topped up with goodies, Chris is out at the county coroner’s looking for Gould’s death certificate, I’m picking out my runners and riders for the two-thirty at Goodwood, and Ray is digging up leads.’
‘How? Where?’
Gene shrugged: ‘Last I saw of him he was headed for the Lost & Found Room.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. He’s a Detective Sergeant, in case you’ve forgotten. I trust his judgment. I don’t need to keep tabs on him. He’s not likely to cause a God Almighty stink that leaves fellas dead and puts my job on the line … not like some round here, eh?’
Sam turned away and marched out. His instinct was to go after Annie, throw his arms around her, comfort her – but he stopped himself. She was starting to feel smothered by him, he could tell. His concern for her had become overbearing, at a time when her head was reeling with the recovery of memories long buried. She was starting to see the reality of her situation, starting to sense that the 1973 she lived in was not 1973 at all, and it was overwhelming, disorientating, frightening. When she pushed him away outside the Roxy, it was not to reject him but just to give herself breathing space, some time alone to get her head around what was happening to her. The best service Sam could do for her was to leave her be. When she wanted company, she knew exactly where to find him. Until then, hard as it was, he would keep his distance.
But that thinking did not apply to DS Ray Carling. Sam headed straight to the Lost & Found Room, with its chaotic mounds of unwanted, unclaimed detritus amassed from all over the city. Abandoned suitcases, bicycles, household appliances and typewriters sat hugger-mugger with a bizarre array of curios: artificial limbs, wig blocks, an box of oversized plastic frogs, a wind-up music box that played 'Lara’s Theme' (as Gene had once demonstrated), an antique telephone, the complete works of Dickens translated into what appeared to be Norwegian. But for Sam, the stale, dusty atmosphere of the Lost & Found Room was associated not with mystery, but with violence, because it was here that Gene brought suspects for interrogation. How many terrified men had grovelled on their knees amid the shelves of junk? How much blood had been spilled on this floor? How many forced confessions had been signed at that table?
His emotions were already running high after his encounter with Gene, but the smell and feel of this room only served to sharpen Sam’s anger.
‘Ray!’ he barked. ‘You in here?’
Ray appeared from behind a set of shelves, his corduroy jacket and blue nylon shirt caked in dust, a battered cardboard box in his hands.
‘I ain’t mutton, Boss, no need to holler.’
‘What are you doing in here, Ray? You’re supposed to be out there looking for leads.’
‘And so I am.’ He plonked the cardboard box down on the table. ‘I’m busy working, Boss. Busier than you.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I don’t like your manner, Boss. You’d not go round talking to your daffy bird like that.’
‘That’s because Annie wouldn’t be dicking around in here when there’s a killer on the loose outside.’
‘No. Maybe she wouldn’t. She’d save her dicking for round at your gaff, eh.’
Furiously, Sam lunged forward. Ray turned with surprising speed and threw a punch. Sam dodged, but the blow caught him hard in the shoulder. At once, Ray drew himself up, fists raised, fully prepared to see this thing through. But Sam backed off, seeing the idiocy of getting drawn into a full-blown punch-up.
‘What the hell’s your problem, Ray?’ Sam said, rubbing his aching shoulder.
‘Cartwright, that’s my problem!’ Ray snapped back. ‘Christ, Boss, the leeway you give that bird! And all because you’re led by your todger. You’d treat me a shite-load different if it was me you wanted to have it off with.’
Sam’s temper flared up again, but he kept control of himself. The Lost & Found Room had seen more than enough violence over the years without him adding to it now.
‘If I give Annie leeway then it’s because it’s not a level playing field for her,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘She’s an intelligent, diligent –’
‘Here we flamin’ go.’
‘– hard-working, honest police officer, and she puts up with a sack of crap from cavemen like you, Ray – a sack of crap, every working day of her life.’
Ray pointed left: ‘CID’s that way.’ He pointed right, ‘Kitchen and bedroom’s that way. There’s a reason them two ain’t put in the same place, Boss.’
‘You’ve just demonstrated my point beautifully. One day, Ray, blokes like you will get hauled up on a disciplinary for saying one fraction of the things you come up with. One day, the men of this world will grow up enough to be able to – stop the presses – work with women.’
‘Women in the Force?! It’s like women in the army, it’s against nature! You’ll have ’em bloody running the country next!’
‘You’re a dinosaur, Ray. You’re lot are dying out.’
‘Aye, Boss, maybe that’s the case,’ said Ray, nodding grimly. ‘But you’ll be crying out to have us back when you see what a pig’s ear them birds’ll make of it if we let ’em take over. Just look what’s happened right here in A-Division. It all changed when they let Cartwright in, Boss. Like bloody Yoko, she’s been.’
There was a tense moment as they eyeballed each other. Then Ray smacked clouds of dust from
the sleeve of his jacket and said: ‘Anyway. Before you start up again accusing me of slacking – look at this.’
He indicated the cardboard box on the table.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Diaries,’ said Ray.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Them files in the records office have been tampered with, right?’
‘Yes. And you know who we can thank for discovering that.’
‘Well,’ Ray went on, ignoring him, ‘if them records ain’t no good, we need to have a look at other records.’ He opened the box and held up a couple of leather-effect diaries. ‘DCI Carroll’s old desk diaries from the sixties. All stashed away, safe and sound.’
‘And how do you know those are DCI Carroll’s old desk diaries?’
Without a word, Ray angled the cardboard box so Sam could see it better. Written in biro on the side it said: DCI CARROLL’S OLD DESK DIARIES.
Ray suppressed a smirk; ‘You’ve been in this Lost & Found Room plenty of times before now, Boss – didn’t you never notice?’
Sam shook his head.
‘There you go, then,’ said Ray. ‘What better place to lose something forever than in here? The stuff what comes here gets boxed up, labelled, stuck on a shelf, and forgotten. Not you, nor the guv, nor no one else ever gives this junk a second thought. Not even your super-cop bit of minge. Oh, but one bloke keeps his eyes open – you know, the department dinosaur who’s going extinct, the one who don’t know how to dress himself of a morning.’
‘How long did you know this box was here?’ Sam asked.
‘I didn’t. But what I did know was that there was boxes of old paperwork that got stored in here a couple of years back when they rearranged the offices. It was only meant to be temporary, but the skip never arrived and nobody could be arsed to find proper homes for this stuff, so it just sat here. You know how it goes. So, I took a punt that Carroll’s old diaries would be tucked away amongst this lot, and my hundred to one outsider romped home by a head.’ And then he added: ‘And while I’ve been in here digging up vital information, I believe Cartwright’s out stocking up our supply of chocolate biscuits. See how it all works best when it’s done that way?’
