by Mark Ayre
There was nothing. If Harris was in there, he was working quietly or was asleep. If it were the latter, James would be tempted to leave him. But he wouldn’t know until he opened the door.
Half expecting to meet the resistance of a closed bolt, he pushed.
It wasn’t locked. The door fell away, and James stepped forward, stopping over the threshold of the office, the door resting against his shoulder.
He looked to the desk, saw there was nobody there, and almost allowed himself to believe Harris was not here.
The floor, though, demanded his attention. Something about the splash of red on the otherwise grey carpet jumped at him.
Looking down he saw Jane’s son and had to look away. Not because the assistant manager was fornicating with himself or anyone else, but because someone had made sure Harris would never be able to fornicate again.
Because Harris Chappell was dead.
4
With a calmness that would always surprise him, he took a step back, crossing the threshold from office to corridor, and allowing the door to close an inch from his face. Then he was staring at it, heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his ears.
He closed his eyes, but that made everything worse. Snaps from his past smash cut into his mind. Toby in the woods, uncle on the bedroom floor, Luke at the riverside, Mohsin in the alley, Mac in the woods. One thing they all had in common. Blood. There was always blood. That and it was James’ fault. Harris broke that particular pattern at least.
The images arrived and departed faster and faster, running on a sickening loop that threatened to overwhelm him. He opened his eyes, blinked tears away. Remembered the one time he had met Harris. An awkward handshake. The younger man had barely been able to meet his eye. He’d been softly spoken. Nina had tried to speak to him, but they had had a falling out. He was not ready to forgive. Now he would never get the chance.
James placed two hands on the door, as though it might resist when pushed. He pressed, and it didn’t move. Not, he knew, because the door had suddenly gained weight. Or it had, but the weight was bestowed upon it by his mind, his fear. He didn’t want to see another body, but it was too little too late. He’d seen it. Added it to the pile of images that would haunt him forever. Might as well take a proper look.
As though he were about to perform a rep in the gym, he took a deep breath and, while breathing out, pushed, both hands shoving the door, moving it easily out of his way. Again he took one step into the room and allowed the door to fall onto his shoulder, as though, if he stepped too far in, and the door closed, he would be unable to reopen it. This was ridiculous. James saw that, but in situations such as these anything that made you feel that little bit more comfortable was worth pursuing.
Still, his eyes flicked to the desk, as though he might see Harris there, chuckling, holding a doll that resembled dead Harris and saying—
Got you.
But there was nothing. No noise. No one at the desk. He saw the monitor, but it was off. Beyond that, the room was pretty empty—a chair on either side of the small wooden desk. A little window set high in the wall, small, prison style without the bars, as though Jane had been practising when she’d worked here.
The carpet was threadbare, and it was quickly becoming hard to tell what colour it had once been with the red fast seeping into it, tainting it.
James started to step forward, stopped himself. He stared at the body and felt a painful twist in his stomach. He had seen more dead bodies in real life than anyone outside of the Homicide department or a serial killer should have to. He didn’t think this was the one that hurt the most to look at, but it was undoubtedly the most gruesome.
Harris had come in barefoot, clad in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt which might once, along with his chest, have been a pale white. Now both shirt and skin were drenched red.
Whoever had attacked him had not been reserved. The chest was a mess of gruesome holes revealing fountains of blood and mangled insides. James assumed a blade had been used, though decided not to go in for a closer examination.
The only upside was Harris could not have survived long under such an onslaught. He would have bled out quickly. Faded away. James only hoped there had been little pain.
A swell of sickness rose within him. He looked to those eyes. Saw them blank and, worse, afraid. Again he made to step forward. Again he stopped. What was he going to do? Check the vital signs? Even the most optimistic of people could not allow themselves to believe Harris might have survived this. The truth was brutal and obvious. He was dead, and he was never coming back.
Head throbbing he stepped from the room, gagging. Pressing himself against the opposite wall, he breathed deeply until the immediate danger of throwing up passed. It would not last. The door was closed, but he could still see the body. It would not go away. Never.
Groaning he stepped from the door, stumbling onto the mezzanine as though he were the one who had been stabbed, began to turn towards the table where the drinks still sat and—
Something moved.
He spun, The Walking Dead in mind. He could see Harris rising. Releasing low guttural sounds as he came towards the door, hands outstretched, desperate for brains. James’ brains.
Holding in a scream, James tried to push the nonsense away. Harris was dead. He was lying on the floor and would never again rise of his own volition.
Still, he had not imagined the sound, and now he remembered. Coming up the stairs, he had heard a noise—the sound of moving feet. A door closing. He thought about whoever Harris had brought with him tonight. He thought about the person who hadn’t drunk the drink put in front of them. Why would they leave it? Because they weren’t a drinker, or because they wanted a clear head?
He stayed dead still. Jane had explained the layout of the building to him, and now he tried to picture it. Upstairs, she had said, there were three doors. Tahir’s office—locked; Harris’ office—population one dead, zero living; and the staff room.
He approached the door that split the mezzanine from the offices. Pressed his head against it, thinking. He had heard footsteps up here. Whether these had been Harris’ or not there was no way out but for the stairs behind James. That meant the killer was still here.
His hand came up, taking the door handle, then lowered as he came to his senses.
The killer had a knife. He would be waiting, wound up. He had taken one life and was not likely to worry about taking another especially if the alternative was prison. James had the horrible feeling his mere presence here had turned him into a loose end.
Approaching the maniac was suicide, and suicide meant no date with Megan.
There had to be another way.
Quietly as he could, James slipped his phone from his pocket and stared at the blank screen, thinking. Trying to decide whether to call Jane or the cops. If it had just been Harris, he would have said Jane, but with a killer as well, he couldn’t risk taking the extra time. Afraid as he was, he couldn’t leave. He would call the police and wait. Ensure whoever killed Harris was caught. It was the least he could do.
Decided, he began dialling.
Somewhere close by, a door opened.
He stopped, two nines on his screen, one to go. Someone stepped into the corridor—one slow foot moving beyond the safety of the staff room. They stopped. More silence filled the space. James’ finger hovered over that final nine, but his hand shook so badly he would likely miss if he tried to press it. Worse, he might jab the phone from his hand. He thought of the sound it would make as it clattered to the metal floor. Chances were he’d have a heart attack.
The phone stayed fixed in his hand, shaking slightly as though vibrating from a call. He waited in the silence and, a minute or so later, there was a second step. The killer had come into the hall. James heard the door close softly, as though its progress had been hampered, and knew the killer was trying to make as little sound as possible. That meant he likely didn’t realise James could hear him. Maybe he thought James wa
s in Harris’ office, and he could walk straight past. James started to wish that was the case. He wouldn’t need to be brave. Wouldn’t need to stand here knowing the killer, currently, would have to pass him to escape.
James would have to stand in his way, and there was no thought more terrifying than that.
Or maybe that wouldn’t be necessary. Maybe the killer would stay put until the police arrived.
Except, James hadn’t yet phoned the police. Shit. Why didn’t they have a text service? He needed time to think. Plan.
The killer started moving. Small, quiet steps, taking him away from the employee staff room towards James. He was closing the space. Any second he would appear, stab a panicked James to death.
Taking a step back he went for a chair. Metal, padded. Heavy. He gripped it and knew, while he would likely be able to lift it, chances are he wouldn’t get any swing. Certainly not one with enough power to take down the killer. He also knew a failed swing would mean death. He’d need to get it spot on first time, and that was something he could not guarantee.
The killer was closer now. Moving slower but still only a couple of seconds from reaching the door.
James released the chair, stood tall, tried to puff out his chest though no one could see him, and aimed for a clear, powerful voice.
“Don’t take another step.”
It didn’t come out as intended but had the desired effect. Beyond the door, the killer came to an abrupt halt. Maybe a few feet away, maybe a couple of inches. No way for James to know, and he had no idea what to do next.
A silence hung in the air. Fear spiralled through James’ body, threatening to cripple him. He thought maybe the killer would speak, but there was nothing. At least, not for a couple of minutes.
Then, another step.
“Stop,” James said, but his voice was even wobblier now. Weak, and there was a slight break in the middle. Not what he had been aiming for. He took a deep breath and searched for some reserve of bravery that had never existed within him.
Another step.
“I’ve called the police,” James said. “It’s over. You don’t want to get in more trouble than you’re already in.”
This was probably not the right move. While the police would be a scary prospect, it was no incentive for the killer to stay put. What was a second killing? He was already looking at spending thirty plus years in prison if caught. But James had pushed him towards a decision—risk it, or get arrested for sure.
Still, the killer had stopped.
James took a step back, another deep breath. Tried to think of something to say that would further delay the killer. But there was a reason he was not a cop.
“I’m sure if you just stay where you are we can—“
Running. The feet crossed three quick steps then the door swung open.
In a panic, James spun and grabbed the nearest chair; he heaved it with strength he didn’t know he possessed and turned it into the path of the killer barrelling towards him.
The killer hit the chair, rather than the other way around. Hands rose, grabbing metal legs and shoving fast and hard. James felt space give way behind him and could only pray he was not going for the stairs, knowing that could spell the end.
His back crashed into the metal railing. Pain spun through but did not cripple him—quite the opposite. He felt his mind focus and, as the killer roared, head down, James grabbed harder onto his side of the chair and shoved with all his might, angling down and then up, so the base of the chair smacked into the hooded head of the attacker.
Harris’ killer roared, grabbed the chair and chucked it aside.
James heard it crash into a table, taking both down, but didn’t look. Instead charging forward, wrapping his arms around the killer and shoving them both back.
Taken by surprise, the killer gave ground as James had with the situation reversed, hitting the wall. But, as James had, he turned this to his advantage. Sensing James had only one plan and didn’t know what to do next, he got his hands on James’ shoulders and shoved.
Stumbling, James just about steadied himself. He looked at the man and saw he had a tea towel over his face, tucked into the hood, protecting his identity.
This was a distraction that proved costly. The killer came, and James waited too long to react. By the time he lifted his arms the killer’s fist was swinging for him. He felt his stomach collapse under the balled hand and the air escape through his mouth.
Coughing and spluttering he went to his knees as the man with the tea towel staggered a little. Then he was turning. He was going to leave, and this was good, James supposed. This meant James was safe, and yet—
As the killer departed, James leaped, ignoring the flash of pain in his stomach, diving towards the killer, swinging his arms out and back in, wrapping them around the legs of his attacker, who roared again, tried to step away, and fell with a crunch to the metal floor, yelling with pain as his head smacked off the top step.
“Stay there,” James gasped as if that was going to work. He got onto his knees and came forward without forethought, realising too late he was bringing himself into the danger zone.
The foot came fast, pulling back and propelling as though powered by a spring mechanism. James had time to turn his neck slightly, protecting his nose, then the boot crashed into the side of his head.
His knees disappeared from beneath him as he shot to the side, hitting and displacing a table as he collapsed underneath it.
Somewhere nearby, a blurred shape rose, adjusting the tea towel to protect its face. James prayed the killer would go, but had no firm hopes in that direction and was not surprised when Tea Towel stepped towards him.
James thought the killer was going to say something and tried to get in first, but in the end, neither spoke. James watched as a big, black, boot pulled back. He tried to drag himself further under the table, but it was too late. He couldn’t move far enough, fast enough.
The boot came in hard. He felt the wind rush over him, announcing its arrival, then it pummelled his stomach, striking him with such force he was sure he would feel the boot tip tear through his stomach and out the other side.
His stomach held, but he felt himself slide under the table as the boot continued its journey, until it could reach no further without a leg extension.
The boot pulled away, and the killer backed up, leaving James on the floor, curled into the foetal position, clutching his stomach with tears of pain wetting his cheeks.
Still, the killer stood over him. James looked for hands. Searched for the glint of a blurry knife, but saw neither. Tea Towel was not going to draw it.
Almost a minute passed, but the killer never moved. It was as though he was showing James he knew the police had not been called. That he had never been afraid. James was in too much pain to take any messages though. He lay where he was, staring at the killer, wanting it to be over.
It was.
Satisfied James was not going to attempt another attack, Tea Towel sauntered off, descending the steps at a leisurely pace.
Alone, James stared ahead, feeling the tears running from his eyes. Feeling the agony of it becoming too much as his stomach continued to throb like a heart, sending waves of pain through his body with every beat. He felt it overtake him and closed his eyes, wanting it to stop, praying for it to end.
But it wouldn’t.
Somewhere nearby, his phone was ringing. He looked across the floor, as though expecting to see it by the stairs, but it was closer than that. He could feel it pressing against his side, between his leg and the floor.
He didn’t want to answer. He wanted to let the darkness seize him. To sleep until the pain had started to ebb. But a young man was dead, and the mother needed to know.
Trying his best to ignore the agony, he rolled, groaning as he flipped, so he was in the foetal position on the other side. From this position, he could better extract the phone from his pocket. Letting it lie on his ear rather than holding it.
“Ja
ne?”
“Yes. James? What’s wrong? What happened?”
He paused, still wheezing breaths. It wasn’t fair, but he didn’t know how to say it. Couldn’t think of the right phrasing, even as he heard Jane becoming more distressed on the other end.
“James, are you with my son?”
The answer, of course, was that there was no ‘right phrasing’.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and waited, still searching for the right words. He expected Jane to follow up, but she went deathly quiet. James looked ahead and saw something beneath the table at which Harris had sat drinking. A small blur that didn’t belong.
“James, you’re scaring me.”
He nodded, although she couldn’t see him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, then, forcing the words to come: “Harris is dead.”
There was a long pause. Well over a minute of Jane sitting on the other end of the line, trying to process a sentence so simple in theory but almost impossible to comprehend. As she did, James zeroed in on the blur, trying to bring it into focus, but it was difficult. He began to drag himself forward, reaching for it, but it was too far away. Again he scooted as Jane took a big, give-me-composure breath.
“Tell me.”
He hesitated, but not for long. He told her how he had come to Harris’ office and found her son dead. Explained about the stabbing, and his altercation with the killer. How he was lying on the mezzanine floor as they spoke. What he did not tell her was that he had now crawled several feet across said floor, and was reaching for a blur that was beginning to come clear. Something shiny. Pretty.
Jane tried to speak, but her words caught, and she choked.
“My son,” she whispered, and those two simple words snapped his heart in two.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered a third time, but he could hear her shaking her head against the phone as he spoke.
“Not your fault,” she said, her voice cracked and broken. “Someone has killed my son, and I’m going to make them pay. Don’t you worry about that.”
