If I wake in the night, she thought, as she turned the light off. And if I remember anything at all.
***
Theresa Bradford found it difficult to get to sleep. Age and the discomfort of arthritis were partly to blame. But she was also worried about young Miss Clay. She lay awake listening until well after midnight, alert for the slightest noise from upstairs. But she heard nothing.
Well, the poor girl might have had an early night, she thought. Even young people go to bed early sometimes.
Theresa could not quite convince herself that the answer was that simple. When she had taken her casserole up to her neighbor, she had been startled at the appearance of the girl. She thought back to the encounter, tried to remember what Miss Clay had said. There was nothing odd about the words, she decided, but the tone of voice had been strange.
And her face. What was wrong with her face?
“Oh, bugger it, I can't sleep like this!” she muttered, and heaved herself ponderously out from under the duvet. Percy, who was curled up in his favorite spot at the bottom of the bed, gave a grumpy meow. Then the cat, sensing the possibility of the fridge being opened, jumped down and ran ahead of her into the kitchen.
“You'll be lucky,” she told the animal as she filled the kettle.
While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, Theresa stared out of her small kitchen window into the night. Wimbledon Common was dotted with lights. The snow had stopped falling and the night was clear, giving the vast expanse a magical appearance. But Theresa did not find it enjoyable, and turned on the kitchen light. She could now just see her reflection in the dark mirror of the window glass.
God, you look awful. And so old.
Then the idea that had been worrying at the back of her mind for hours surfaced. She knew why there had been something wrong with Timandra Clay's face. It was so simple that she laughed out loud. The girl's face had looked completely natural. For the first time, she had seen her neighbor without lipstick, powder, eyeliner, mascara.
“She wasn't wearing any make-up, Percy! That was all. She'd probably just been into the shower. These girls today, they wear far too much on their faces. Good that she's looking more natural, isn't it? Yes.”
Theresa was so relieved to have solved the mystery that she celebrated with a chocolate digestive biscuit, and even gave Percy an extra helping of Kittybits. She went back to bed to sip her tea, and drowsiness began to overcome her. She placed the teacup on the bedside table and curled up again, feeling content. She had almost drifted off to sleep when another thought struck her.
Did she have time to take a shower? Hadn't she just come in, and then taken a phone call?
But by then, tiredness had claimed the old lady, and the questions faded into a dreamless slumber.
***
Ted Gould sent the video link, from his second phone, to Denny and Harriet Zoffany. Neither responded, but he assumed both would guess he was responsible. It had not taken him long to find the evidence of the incursion. He hoped that the research staff had not followed his example, but they were a smart bunch. If any of them had found the video and followed procedure, they would tell him.
And I'll have to tell Benson that the boundary is starting to collapse. Far sooner than we had expected.
When footage taken by Denny in the Phantom Dimension had been analyzed the previous autumn, it had caused alarm. Vast entities had been heading toward the Malpas Abbey gateway. But it was assumed that, even if the beings could somehow enlarge the portal between dimensions, the human world would have years to prepare. The time flow in the PD was so much slower, it made sense to believe in a comfortable margin.
What they had not taken into account was that Class One entities might be about to penetrate our world in other places. Nobody knew what the Russians, Chinese, or a dozen other nations were doing about the issue. Gould had a strong conviction that they were doing nothing.
The more authoritarian the state, the more it can ignore pressing problems.
“Maybe we deserve what's coming,” he said aloud.
The bleak statement broke the silence in his apartment. Part of him hoped that he was being bugged, that Benson heard him in his despair. Despite years of doing the chairman's bidding, Gould still did not understand his boss. He disliked and mistrusted Benson, but could not grasp what made him tick. All he could be sure of was that Benson had the backing of the government and the foundation's trustees.
Gould frowned, took out his 'secret' phone again. He searched for the Romola Foundation, something he did from time to time to see just how well-cloaked his employer was. Sure enough, the foundation was still listed by the government's charity regulator as a 'body devoted to research into the paranormal and related issues'. Gould grimaced as a quote from the visionary poet Blake occurred to him.
“A truth that's told with bad intent,” he murmured, “beat all the lies you can invent. Pity you're not still around, mate. You might be just the kind of lunatic we need at this hour.”
The Charity Commission website gave a few other snippets of information. It was notable that other charities offered pictures of their bosses, workers, major donors. The Romola Foundation only listed Benson and the trustees. No pictures. Gould tried to remember if he had ever met one of the trustees, as they were required by law to hold regular meetings and supervise Benson's activities. But try as he might, he could not recall anything about them. The list of commonplace British names told him nothing. A web search found no further data on any of them.
They're probably just a bunch of upper-class nonentities, Gould concluded, claiming expenses, signing off on the accounts, and just letting Benson do his thing.
He flung the phone down on the sofa, then poured himself a whiskey as a nightcap. As the pungent spirit hit the back of his throat, he felt a warm glow. It did nothing to improve his mood at first, but after finishing a full glass of Scotch at least his unhappiness had blurred around the edges.
***
Jon and Sallie Murray got the children to bed without difficulty. After that, they said little to one another; she busied herself with household tasks, while he worked on his laptop in the kitchen. They would normally have settled down to watch TV around nine before getting to bed early. But on this particular night, neither made a move towards the living room sofa.
We're avoiding each other, she thought. We don't want to talk about it while they're in the house.
Sallie went into the kitchen, filled the kettle.
“Want some tea?” she asked, without looking at her husband.
“Yeah, I'll have a cup,” Jon replied.
After she had made the tea, she set the cups down on the table between them and took a seat opposite Jon. Then she reached out and placed her hand over his, clutching it as he tried to pull away. His face was illuminated in the glow of the laptop screen. He still did not look at her.
“We've got to talk about it,” she whispered urgently. “We can't just let it slide. Not now. Not after the dog.”
“Do you seriously think,” he said softly, still not looking up from the screen, “that those kids – our kids – could do something like that?”
“Somebody did it,” she insisted. “I don't believe it was a wild animal. And neither do you.”
“Remember when Zoe saved that ladybird from the stream?” Jon said. “She insisted on it having a bed made from a matchbox and some cotton wool. So it could get better after nearly drowning. Ben made fun of her, sure, but as soon as she cried, he stopped.”
“I know–” Sallie began.
“That was last summer,” Jon said. Now he did raise his eyes to hers. “I was so proud of them. I got that glow when I talked about them. So proud. How can they have changed so much since then?”
“I don't know how it's happened,” Sallie admitted. “But I found out some things …”
She told Ben about her research, her suspicions, her doubts. After the first minute or so, he shook his head, seemed about to object. But as she pr
essed on, his face became pale, confused, even more unhappy than before. When she had finished he said nothing for a few moments, then closed the laptop.
“There's been some talk going 'round,” he whispered, leaning forward. “About something weird that happened with kids over the other side of the county. Place on the border, called Machen.”
“Where did you hear this?” she asked.
“Old Bert down at the garage,” he admitted, “I know he's a bit daft and drinks too much cheap cider, but he does have family out that way.”
Sallie said, “So what did he tell you?”
“Kids disappeared in the woods, then came back … but changed,” he explained. “Not acting right. All withdrawn and quiet, like. And there were killings. Story gets a bit garbled about that, you know what Bert's like. But I heard–”
Jon's eyes widened as he stopped talking, then leaned back. Sallie knew before she turned around what he had seen. In the doorway behind her Zoe stood, staring at her parents. Zoe was dressed in Disney princess pajamas, dangling a cuddly panda from one tiny hand. Yet looking at the small figure Sallie felt a definite chill of dread.
“I can't sleep, daddy,” said Zoe. “I'm frightened.”
“Oh,” Jon said, standing up. It was his established role to comfort Zoe, despite Sallie's half-serious opposition to the 'Daddy's girl' approach. This time, though, she sensed Jon's reluctance as he made his way around the table to kneel, with open arms, before Zoe. The child ran forward into her father's embrace.
It looks so right, Sallie thought. Anyone else looking at this would see it as normal. Touching, even. But really, it's like actors in a play.
Zoe had buried her face in Jon's shoulder, but now she looked up sharply. Sallie flinched, tried not to show how disturbed she was. Zoe's face was expressionless as she murmured something into Jon's ear.
“Oh, is that so?” he replied, his voice hearty. “Well, I'll come and check.”
Jon lifted Zoe and stood up. He looked back at Sallie, and she saw all too clearly that he was afraid, and fighting his fear.
“What is it?” Sallie asked.
“Oh, don't worry, love,” said Jon, trying to sound nonchalant. “She says there are monsters in her room. Just some silly old monsters. I'll take care of it.”
Sallie sat, wringing her hands, as her husband carried their small daughter upstairs. She thought of the torn and bloodied carcass of the dog, and listened intently as low voices carried down the stairs.
What can I do? Sallie asked herself. She looked at her phone lying on the table. Can I call the police and tell them our children might be planning to kill us? What evidence do I have, really?
She went through the mental list of oddities, changes, impressions. If she spoke them aloud to a police officer, she would sound like a lunatic. And yet she and Jon both shared the same fear, a dread of their own offspring.
And now they've separated us.
The new thought stunned her with its simplicity. The children were far smaller and weaker than their parents, but together they could tackle one. And Jon, by far the stronger of the two, had just been lured upstairs.
Into the dark.
Sallie rose and walked slowly to the foot of the stairs. She could hear nothing, now, except the familiar grumbling noise from the boiler. Then came what might have been a cry, quickly stifled. The voice was not that of a child. There was a startling thud as something struck the bedroom floor.
Sallie retreated, shaking her head in desperate denial, until she collided with the kitchen table. A shadow appeared on the staircase, a shadow cast by something low, crouching, moving on all fours. She reached behind her, groping for the phone.
“Jon?” she said faintly, as if his name could somehow conjure him up.
It can't be Jon. Oh God!
A small shape came into view, and turned its head towards her. It had a muzzle, not a face, but the hair hanging in pigtails to either side of the monstrous visage was as familiar as the Disney princess pajamas.
Sallie screamed, knocked the phone onto the floor, and got down to scrabble for it. Then she changed her mind, went to slam the kitchen door first. The creature that had been Zoe was already bounding on all fours across the hall. Sallie slammed the door in the creature's face, and pressed her back against it. A snarling noise, utterly inhuman, came from the other side of the door. A series of fierce blows pounded on the oak panels, but they held firm.
There was no lock, but a chair could be jammed under the knob. She stretched out an arm for the nearest chair but could not quite reach it. She slid down until she was on her backside and tried to hook the chair with her foot. She succeeded only in kicking it sideways. She tried again, and this time dragged it closer. Grasping the knob with one hand, she pulled herself upright and grabbed the chair, jamming it into position.
As if sensing what she had done, the pounding increased. Sallie got down and crawled under the table to reach her phone. But before she could reach it, the back door swung open. Locking up was part of the nightly ritual she and Jon went through just before going to bed. Ben had simply gone around the house from front to back.
With nowhere to retreat, Sallie tried to overturn the table to make an improvised shield as the pale entity bounded into the kitchen. It easily leaped over the table and landed on the cringing woman, talons flashing with dizzying speed. Sallie felt suddenly cold and numb, all fear departing with her life blood.
Chapter 4: City of Illusions
At Hobs Lane station, a different security guard was on the night shift. Just after midnight he waved the pretty, young cleaner through, and smiled, trying to make conversation about the weather.
“Cold enough for you?” he asked, cheerfully.
The woman looked up at him, then her mouth twitched up in a tight smile that vanished again almost instantly.
“It’s cold enough for me, yes.”
The guard was about to launch into a comparative discussion of wintry conditions in England as opposed to Eastern Europe. But before he could begin, the woman had moved on, not exactly running but walking swiftly. The guard was left ambling back to his small office, feeling slightly resentful.
Still, he thought, it's that work ethic that brings them over here in the first place.
The guard settled into his chair with a sigh and flicked through the security monitors. They showed, unsurprisingly, that both platforms were empty. He waited for the cleaner to appear.
There she is, he thought. With her bucket on wheels.
The woman began to mop the tiles, and the guard soon got bored. He took out his phone and started checking the football news. He felt moved to comment on a piece about his team, Arsenal. This quickly involved him in a fierce online dispute with a supporter of Manchester United, a not-uncommon situation. As the mutual mud-slinging escalated, he was half-aware of the tiny figure of the cleaner moving along the platform.
“Oh, sod off,” he sighed eventually, and got up to get his Thermos flask of coffee.
It was only then that he noticed the cleaner had vanished.
“Where did you get to, then, darling?”
The guard flicked between different views, scrutinizing both platforms and the various tunnels and escalators. Then he got up and went outside his tiny office, into the atrium. She wasn't there, either. The guard knew that a body had been found on the tracks near Hobs Lane that morning. There was talk of the woman being a murder victim. In his mind's eye, he imagined a killer stalking the Underground tunnels in the small hours, preying on cleaners.
Don't be stupid. No way somebody could walk that far through the network and not be seen.
He realized he did not even remember the woman's name. He found the cleaning roster under a heap of free newspapers and fast-food wrappers.
“Daniela Wysko – Viskovich – bugger.”
He gave up on the cleaner's surname and rushed to the lift. When he emerged onto the platform, he saw the cleaning gear lying, as if abandoned, near the tunnel mout
h. His heart began to pound with genuine fear. The idea of a psychopath lurking in the vast labyrinth of tunnels under London was suddenly credible.
“Daniela?” he said tentatively, then realized he could not be heard more than a few yards away. He raised his voice, shouted her name again. The echo answered him. The tunnel mouth suddenly seemed huge, menacing. He wished that budget cuts had not left a bare minimum of staff at stations.
A sound came out of the darkness. It might have been a call for help. It had a plaintive quality, weak, feminine. The security guard had failed to get into the army or the police. He had always wanted, deep down, to be hailed as a hero, to see his name in the paper. In fact, he could see it now.
HERO GUARD SAVES WOMAN
No way are you going in there, he told himself firmly. Go back up and call the cops.
Before he could turn away, though, a flood of images cascaded through his mind. He saw himself not only rescuing Daniela, but her immense gratitude leading to steamy fun and more. She would become the hot, adoring young wife he had always deserved. He saw himself transformed from just another fat, middle-aged guy to a celebrity. He would appear on TV to be modest and witty. He would found a charity, travel the world promoting good causes, and never have to work again.
You're being an idiot, said a small voice, which he ignored as he climbed ponderously down onto the track. But as he walked into the darkness, he was smiling, despite the pounding of his heart. A phrase he had always liked occurred to him.
“A date with destiny,” he murmured. “Oh yes.”
He took out his flashlight and shone it into the tunnel, the beam glancing off the steel rails and damp, gleaming walls. He could just make out a vague figure, small and still, about a hundred yards ahead.
“Daniela?” he shouted again.
Instead of coming towards him she stepped back, disappeared.
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