by Mark Tilbury
Shift: Blurry shapes hustling and bustling on a moving pavement. Nothing more than ants, but at the same time so much more. Tommy knew what they were, but was unable to put a name to them. Ghosts?
Shift: Arms floating by his sides, as if giving praise to an imaginary deity. Were they his arms, or the arms of the angels waiting to carry him to Heaven? No, that was silly, because they didn’t have wings, and everyone knew it was impossible to fly without wings.
Shift: A narrow… tunnel? Shadows flitting past the window. Tall creatures decked in dark robes, bowing gracefully, respectfully. A guard of honour?
Shift: Head spinning. Stomach queasy. No longer in motion. The man with the aura leaning close to him. Eyes like… like… windows to the Devil’s soul. Where was he? How had he got here? Why was he here in this place called Nowhere At All?
‘Get out of the car, Number Nine.’
Tommy tried to make sense of the words, but it was like trying to juggle with treacle.
‘Now, you fuckwit!’
He stared at the man, trying to fathom his relationship with him. But he was the strangest stranger he’d ever seen. And he’d seen a lot of them in this Land of Liars.
‘You can either get out of the car now, Number Nine, or I’ll fetch The Master and let him deal with you.’
‘Huh?’
‘You’re a disgrace, Number Nine. A fucking disgrace. And I for one can’t wait to see the back of you.’
Tommy didn’t have a clue what Fuzzy Aura was talking about.
The rear door slammed. A key twisted in the lock. A gust of wind blew through the trees, shaking a few more stubborn dead leaves from their tenuous perch.
Tommy tried to sit up, but his back seemed as if it was stapled to the seat. Where the hell was he? Definitely not on the moon. The darkening sky made everything appear like a black-and-white photo. Spots of rain tapped on the car roof. Impatient fingers waiting for an answer to an important question.
‘Who am I?’ Tommy asked. ‘Who the fuck am I?’
Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, his mother’s voice whispered. Stole a pig and away did run.
Tommy shook his head to dislodge the words. He’d never stolen a pig in his life. Had he? He didn’t even like pork. Did he?
Voices, loud and excitable, outside the car. Arguing or in high spirits? It was hard to tell with the howling wind.
The rear door opened. A tall man with dark hair leaned towards him. ‘Hello, Number Nine, welcome home.’
At first, he thought it was good old Charlie come to take him up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. But this guy didn’t have a moustache. Or Charlie’s eyes.
‘Get out of the car,’ the man said, ‘or would you prefer I drag you out?’
‘Where am I?’
The man grinned. ‘You’re back at The Playhouse, Number Nine.’
‘Huh?’
The man’s perfect white teeth seemed to glow within his cavernous mouth. ‘You have two choices, Number Nine. You can either do as you’re told or face the consequences.’
‘I can’t feel my legs,’ Tommy said, unsure whether he’d actually spoken the words or imagined them.
The man glanced behind him. ‘How much of that stuff did you give him?’
‘Not much.’
‘Really? So why do I get the impression the idiot’s auditioning for a zombie movie?’
‘I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t want him getting suspicious. You said—’
‘I said give him enough to make him compliant, not bloody comatose.’
‘Why don’t we leave him in the car until it wears off?’
The man was quiet for a moment. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Hopefully the worsening weather will help to bring him to his senses. You go back to the flat and give it a damn good clean. I’ll get the basement ready for our guest.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And make sure you park a good distance away from the flat. We don’t want any busybodies noting the Merc’s registration number and giving it to the police when they start asking questions.’
‘I’ll park at the railway station and walk.’
‘Okay. And keep your head down. Don’t talk to anyone.’
‘No, Master.’
The man stood. Slammed the door. Locked the car.
Tommy listened to their retreating footsteps crunching on the gravel, then slumped forward with his chin resting on his chest. He still hadn’t a clue who Fuzzy Aura was, but the tall thin one seemed vaguely familiar. His name was on the tip of… an iceberg?
He sighed. That wasn’t right. Nothing was right. Not when you were walking the wrong way up a one-way street.
The wind picked up speed and scattered dried leaves across the lawn. Rain bounced off the car.
Tommy closed his eyes and begged God to make this nightmare end. Give him back his identity. Show him the way out of the darkness and into the light. But God was too busy having a tantrum and casting a storm spell.
He slipped in and out of consciousness. One minute, certain he knew who The Master was. Fuzzy Aura, too. The next, besieged by nightmares concerning witches on flying trees and tall buildings with black glass eyes watching his every move.
Although many questions remained unanswered, he was sure of one thing: he was going to die, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Danielle checked the time on her phone. Eight p.m. She called Dean’s number for the umpteenth time. Nothing. Not even the usual message to leave a voicemail.
‘Still no answer?’ Rachel said, peering out the window.
‘No.’
‘His phone might be out of charge.’
Danielle shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t stop him bringing Tommy home, though, would it?’
‘No offence, love, but that old banger looked just about ready for the scrapyard. Wouldn’t surprise me if it’s broken down.’
‘Thanks, Mum, you’re doing my confidence the world of good.’
Rachel let the curtain fall. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t you drive over there and see what’s what?’
Danielle’s stomach cramped. She was probably overreacting. The boys were more than likely watching a movie or something. Forgot the time. But recent events had taught her worrying about her brother was fully justified. You didn’t have to look any further than Dr Marks to realise Tommy’s life was in real danger. These people would go to any lengths to get what they wanted.
Rachel sat on the sofa. ‘Danielle? I said—’
‘What if something’s happened to them?’
‘I’m sure it’s just—’
‘How can you be sure of anything, Mum? There’re dangerous people after Tommy. You know he’s not safe.’
‘But he’s only gone to the flat. And he’s with Dean. I completely understand why you’re concerned. I am, too, but it’s no good letting your imagination run wild.’
‘I’m not. Dr Marks was murdered, remember?’
Rachel pursed her lips. ‘Tell you what, I’ll give Dad a ring at the social club and see if he’ll go to Dean’s flat with you. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
Danielle hesitated. Her father enjoyed his Saturday night at the club. Winding down with a few beers and a game of darts. ‘No. You’re right. I’m probably overreacting. I’ll give it another half an hour and go myself.’
Danielle spent the next twenty minutes checking her phone, peering out the window, and nipping to the conservatory for a much-needed cigarette.
Grabbing her coat from the hall stand, Danielle popped her head round the lounge door. ‘Right, I’m off. Text me if they come home.’
Rachel followed her to the door. Put on a dark-green waterproof jacket. ‘I’m coming with you.’
By the time they were on the back road to Chorley, the rain was hammering against the windscreen making it nearly impossible to see, even with the wipers on full speed.
Danielle tried to focus, but the headlights kept throwing sha
dows across the road. Black apocalyptic shapes like hitchhikers heading towards Hell.
‘Bloody weather,’ Rachel said. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if the whole country ended up under water one day. Eileen Ramsden said her nan used to work at the research laboratories, and they could do all sorts of things to manipulate the weather. Even build a storm in a test tube.’
Danielle thought Eileen’s nan was full of crap. The weather was just the weather. The one topic everyone liked to moan about. Without it, the English would be stuck for any meaningful conversation.
She parked outside the flats and switched off the engine. Turned off the headlights. The narrow road was plunged into near-darkness. Not a streetlamp in sight.
Rachel shivered. ‘I’m glad I don’t live here. It looks really creepy.’
‘You wait in the car while I go in and check.’
‘Are you sure?’
Danielle nodded. ‘It’ll only take me five minutes. No point us both getting soaked to the skin.’
A security light illuminated the pathway leading to the flats. Bushes and trees danced in the wind, casting shadows along the front of the building. Danielle’s imagination seized control of her head, filling it with images of waiting strangers armed with knives.
She tried the front door. Locked. ‘Well, it fucking would be, wouldn’t it?’ she said. She pulled on the handle. Rattled the door.
Scanning a row of buzzers, she pressed the corresponding number to Dean’s flat. Waited. Nothing. Pressed again. Jigged from one foot to the other. Checked behind her. Could see the silhouette of her car parked in the lay-by.
She took out her phone and checked the screen for messages and missed calls. Blank. Her heart picked up speed. She pushed the buzzer again. ‘Come on, Dean, for fuck’s sake open the door.’
Ten seconds. Twenty. Worry turned to dread. Something was seriously wrong. Dean would never take Tommy anywhere without telling her. He was well aware of the situation. Far too considerate to even contemplate scaring her like this.
The front door suddenly burst open. A man armed with what looked like a rifle walked towards her.
Danielle jumped back, almost losing her footing.
‘Hey there, love. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Gasping for air, she realised the ‘rifle’ was actually a walking stick, and the man posed no serious threat, he seemed as shocked as she did.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
She thought she was about as far from all right as it was possible to be without being in Feelham Cemetery. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely speak. ‘Sorry… I’m… looking for someone.’
The man pulled up the collar of his trench coat with one hand. ‘Who?’
‘Dean. Dean Bowen. He lives here.’
‘Tall skinny guy who needs a haircut?’
She nodded. ‘Have you seen him.’
‘He’s gone, love. Moved out this afternoon.’
‘But—’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’
Yes, that’s why I’m stood here soaked to the skin. ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry, love. I mean, I could be wrong, but I saw him leave earlier with a suitcase. And Mrs Goodall said the place appeared all cleared out.’
‘Mrs Goodall?’
‘She lives opposite him. Between you and me, she had a peek through the letterbox.’
‘What about my brother? He’s meant to be with him.’
‘Mr Bowen left with a younger guy around one-thirty. I have to say, he seemed a bit unsteady on his feet. Mr Bowen had to help him into the car. Bowen came back a while later and cleared the flat out.’
Danielle’s mind froze. This couldn’t be right. There had to be a logical explanation. Why in God’s name would Dean take Tommy somewhere, then come back and clear out the flat? It didn’t make sense, unless… ‘Are you sure?’
The man nodded, the pompom on his woollen hat bobbing up and down. ‘Mrs Goodall might have got it wrong about the flat, but I saw the rest of it with me own eyes. I like to keep a check on the comings and goings, especially with druggies hanging around the back sometimes.’
Danielle turned around. ‘Thanks.’
‘For what it’s worth, love, you don’t wanna trust a man who has secrets.’
By the time she got back to the car, Danielle’s mind was being torn in a dozen different directions. There had to be some mistake. A rational explanation. Old people got things wrong. They were easily muddled. Dean and Tommy had probably gone out for a meal or something.
‘Well?’ Rachel asked. ‘Any sign of him?’
She told her mother what the old man had said.
Rachel clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my God! Cleared out the flat?’
‘That’s what he said. But it doesn’t mean it’s true, does it? The woman who looked through the letterbox might have got it wrong. I mean, you can hardly see the whole flat from there, can you?’
‘Well… no… but it still doesn’t explain where on earth they’ve gone, does it? And I don’t believe for one minute Tommy would get drunk. Not while he’s on all that medication.’
‘What if Dean let him have a drink? He could’ve panicked and taken him somewhere to sober up.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘But why would he do that when he could put him to bed in the flat?’
‘God knows.’
‘Try his mobile again.’
Danielle did. ‘Nothing. It’s been switched off.’
‘Call your father and tell him to come home. If we haven’t heard nothing within an hour, we’ll call the police.’
Danielle started the car, turned around, and headed back towards Feelham. If anything had happened to her brother, she’d never be able to live with herself. It would be her fault. Again.
But Dean loves you. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.
She wished she could trust the voice in her head, but it was becoming increasingly impossible to do so.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
At first, Tommy thought he was at home in bed. That he’d had a bad dream about flying trees and black glass eyes. Been taken to the middle of nowhere by a man called Fuzzy Aura. But, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the light, he realised his bedroom didn’t house a massive fish tank, and there were no manacles screwed to the wall.
He tried to get up, but his wrists were chained to the brass headboard. His ankles were bound with rope, and he was naked. Goosebumps decorated his frozen skin, and his feet were bruised and bleeding.
‘Where the fuck am I?’
The room wasn’t saying. The malignant atmosphere seemed to press down on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. To make matters worse, his head was thumping, and his eyes were dry.
He twisted his head to one side. Gawped at the tank. The piranhas paid him no attention as they went about their business.
A memory. Real and vivid. Shooting pool and shooting the breeze with Number Three in the Recreation Room. Three was a weedy kid. Always sniffing and rubbing his eyes. Complaining of a bad stomach. But this particular day, Three had been more chatty than usual. Telling Tommy about his parents who’d died in a road accident. Going to stay with Aunt Mary and Uncle James. Running away when he was thirteen and living on the streets for six months.
‘Then I met Bella,’ he’d said. ‘She said she’d let me stay with her until I got back on my feet. But she drugged me and brought me back to this shithole. The rest’s fuckin’ history.’
After losing three straight games to Number Three, Tommy had asked, ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Dunno. Seems like a hundred years. I didn’t used to believe in religious stuff, but I’ve seen enough to know the Devil really exists. He ain’t no made-up bullshit like the bogeyman. The fuckin’ Master, my arse. He’s evil, and some.’
‘Has anyone ever escaped from here?’
Three shook his head. ‘Number Four got sick once. Bella and The Master killed him and fed him to the fish.’
‘Fish
?’
‘Apparently, he’s got a tank full of piranhas in the basement. Nasty little fuckers can strip the meat off your bones in seconds. So, if you don’t wanna be turned into piranha shit, you’d better do exactly as you’re told.’
This memory only served to reinforce Tommy’s belief he was about to die and be fed to the piranhas. The fish no longer seemed to be minding their own business; they were watching him. Waiting for him. Razor-sharp teeth primed and ready to tear into his flesh.
He yanked on the chains hard enough to cut into his wrists and draw blood. He kicked his legs and bucked his body. Why was this happening to him? After finally getting away and almost killing himself in the process, he was right back where he’d started.
But how did he get here? It was as if history had repeated itself. One minute, he’d been at Dean’s flat, and the next he’d woken up in the basement chained to a bed. But he had no idea about the time in between. Nothing made sense.
Another thought: what if something terrible had happened to Dean? Danielle would be frantic. Inconsolable. Not only to lose her brother again, but her boyfriend as well. Someone must’ve followed them to the flat. Talked their way in. Possibly killed Dean. But why couldn’t Tommy remember? It was as if his brain had a knack of shutting down whenever something traumatic happened.
He clearly remembered the journey to Chorley in Dean’s car. The old banger the garage had lent him while his own was being worked on. Thinking it would be a miracle if the bloody thing made it to Chorley.
Going into the flat. Boxes and crap everywhere. Dean telling him he was only staying at the flat for a short time while his place was being refurbished.
Think, think, think. Did Dean answer the door to anyone? Did he order food, and the delivery guy was really one of The Master’s cronies?
The door opened, and a man dressed in black jeans and a black polo neck jumper entered. He stopped a few feet away from the bed and grinned. ‘Hello, Number Nine. It’s good to have you back.’