Now You See Me

by Chris McGeorge

  He leaned on the railing and shone the light onto a set of three stone steps that descended into water. The canal. This was the canal.

  He poked his head over the railing as far as he could reasonably manage and looked left and right. The waterway carried on as far as he could see both ways. This was just what he had expected when he had heard of the cut-throughs where panicked people could be rescued from the claustrophobic confines of Standedge.

  And Robin could kind of understand why someone would panic. In comparison to the large and empty railway tunnel, the canal tunnel was tiny. There was no space beside the canal at all, and it looked barely high enough to be able to fit a boat through. It had to be a surreal experience, being so hemmed in to your surroundings. Robin couldn’t see why anyone would willingly want to travel through it.

  He turned away from the canal and went back into the railway tunnel, the flashlight bouncing light off the far wall. Something flashed.

  Robin thought he had imagined it at first, but on another pass, he saw it. There was something almost reflective in the wall. He went over to it and saw that there was a piece of blue tarpaulin slick with water. He reached out to touch it, expecting to press his hand against it. But his hand kept going, pushing it. The tarpaulin was covering something.

  He wrenched the tarp aside.

  Two sheets of metal were resting in a gap in the wall. They looked like they were painted some kind of red, but they had been dulled as though they had rusted. The two pieces came together as though they were doors. Robin almost had the urge to reach out and knock, but instead he ran his finger over the metal. There was something odd about the left sheet of metal and he had to reposition his torch to see what had caught his eye. But finally he saw.

  The entire left sheet of metal had small holes all over its surface. And there seemed to be another sheet behind it that closed the holes. He reached out and pulled the sheet of metal back. It swung open like a door. There was a slider on the other side—he pushed it and the slats opened so he could see through the holes.

  He didn’t know what it was, but it was hardly important. Instead he shone the torch beyond the door.

  And stared into the small, narrow recess in the wall of the tunnel. It was covered in blankets—the walls of the recess, the floor. They were all incredibly dirty and damp, and there was a bunch of them at the far end with two pillows. A makeshift bed. To the side of the “bed” was a crop of cardboard—three pieces positioned like a house of cards. It looked like someone was trying to make a sort of table structure. Under it were empty boxes of food—cereals, ready meals, packets of crisps, all so waterlogged they had sort of fused together to create a mush of rubbish.

  Robin looked around at the shelter in disgust. Something glinted on the ground and he picked it up, almost unthinking.

  It was a cat collar. The disc said MITTONS. And as he regarded it, his torch bobbed over to something else. A small mound of something, a dull red. He didn’t know what he was looking at, until he retched. He doubled over and retched a few more times but nothing came out. When he had recovered, he looked again at the thing in the corner. It was a dead cat carcass—half-consumed and the rest of the flesh festering and moldy. He turned away—a disgusting smell filling his nostrils as though it was waiting to shock him. His eyes stung and he blinked away the sensation of the smell attacking him. He wiped his eyes and looked down, his gaze falling on something else.

  There was a piece of clothing on the floor, lying on the blankets. It looked cleaner than the rest of the shelter—and therefore newer. It was a purple hoodie—looked like a girl’s. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands. His eyes widened as he saw writing emblazoned on the back.

  UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH.

  He instantly understood who this hoodie belonged to—it was Rachel Claypath’s. It had to be. But what did this mean?

  He heard footsteps behind him. Someone coming up the tunnel to meet him.

  Sally.

  He turned. “I’ve found something.” No one was there. He shone the torch down the tunnel. No one.

  He looked the other way.

  And saw only the rock flying toward his face. His forehead erupted in pain, and his legs slipped out from under him.

  He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Do you see them too?”

  The voice drifted to him, and he tried to grab the words as they flew in front of his face.

  He wafted in and out of the world, or maybe it wafted in and out of him.

  “Or are you one of them?”

  He opened his eyes, as best he could. His left eye didn’t seem to want to open. It was shut fast by something sticky—something leaking from his forehead. It was hot. His head felt like it was about to rip open; his pulse hammered at his temples.

  “He lies.”

  Robin’s fingers sang with pins and needles. His hands were tied behind him with something. He was resting against the back of the shelter, which was illuminated by some kind of battery-powered light in the center of the place.

  There was a man standing at the door.

  He swam in and out of Robin’s vision. Like he was on a partially tuned old television set.

  The man was scruffy. A dirty white T-shirt and soiled gray track pants. Long hair matted with sweat and rainwater, sticking up. A tangled, unruly beard. He was standing there. Looking at him with impossibly wide eyes.

  “Who...?” Robin spluttered—his mouth as dry as sandpaper.

  “I saw them. The other day. This isn’t what you think.” His voice was high-pitched. It almost sounded like a child’s. “I know what people say about me. Me.”

  His forehead pulsed and unconsciousness became the easy option. But he battled against it. “Who are...?”

  The man stepped forward, twisted his head around. “He lies. I saw him do it. I saw him.”

  “Who are you?” Robin said.

  And the force it took for him to utter those three words was just too much. And the pulsing and the pain and the stench were just too much.

  He watched the man watch him and disappear into darkness.

  And then it was all gone again.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Robin. Oh God, Robin.”

  He opened his good eye. The world seemed a little more real this time. He was still in the shelter, the light was gone—and so was the man. The pain in his forehead had dulled. Sally was standing over him.

  “Where is he?” Robin said, trying to get up. His hands were untied—had they ever actually been bound? He used the rock face to inch himself up and staggered forward. He started to dip down but Sally caught him. “Where the hell is he?”

  “Who?” Sally said. “God, Robin, your head. I think it needs stitches.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No,” Sally said.

  Robin shrugged her off and barreled through the two metal sheets into the tunnel. Darkness flooded him. “Robin.” Sally came up behind him, tried to grab him by the arm, but Robin evaded her—he almost slipped on a rock but managed to keep upright. He got to the train track—the sleepers—and knew that following them would take him back to the hole.

  The man was going there. He was going there to get away. He just knew.

  He started staggering at a fair pace, ignoring the throbbing above his left eye.

  Sally was behind him. “That place... Was he living there...? Was that...the Standedge Monster?”

  Robin didn’t answer. He just quickened his pace.

  His vision came in swaths. Time didn’t really make sense anymore. All he could rely on was the pulsing pain in his forehead. He kept on up the tunnel, seeing nothing that suggested a man had gone through there recently.

  “Robin, stop.”

  “No.”

  “Robin, who was he?�
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  Robin didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. “A man. In a white top. Gray track pants. Beard. Long hair. Living in the tunnel. Doesn’t matter who he is. All that matters is that he’s out there.”

  “Someone else can do this, Robin. It doesn’t have to be you.”

  The blood from his head had trickled down and into his mouth. He spit out a mouthful of it. He looked up to see a small glimmer of light on the wall of the tunnel.

  The hole. It had to be. It had grown slightly since he had last been through it. Either Sally or the man must have caused some more of the rock face to fall away. It looked even more precarious now.

  Robin didn’t even think—he launched himself at the hole, retracting his arms to his sides and wriggling through it. The rock above him shifted, but he didn’t even hear it. He just kept going.

  Soon enough, even more sunlight flooded his vision, and he was pulling himself out of the hole back into the clearing that he had created. It was empty—there was no one there. He got to his knees and looked all around—it was like the man was a ghost, and had just disappeared.

  Who knows how long he had been out? The man could be miles away by now.

  But that didn’t matter. Not to him. He had to get up. He had to keep going. Because this was what he’d been searching for.

  This was to get him closer to her.

  He wrenched himself upright. With nothing to hold on to, he staggered and almost fell. But he was okay.

  He almost smiled then, but caught himself. Instead he took in a deep breath of fresh air—his first in God knew how long. It felt good.

  But then—a feeling. The sharp cool air was rushing to his head and his vision was going blurry.

  He was going to—

  He fell.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Ringing.

  Not in his head. No—actual ringing.

  He opened his eyes—both of them. He was lying on the bed in his room in The Hamlet. He sat up and grazed a finger over his forehead. It was clean, but the cut above his left eye stung to the touch. He winced.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He felt like he’d slept for days, and looking at the clock, he saw it was 10:00 a.m. He wondered what day that referred to.

  He got up, looking around for his phone. He found it on the desk, plugged in, charging. It stopped ringing before he was able to reach for it.

  He saw the date on the home screen. Friday. It was Friday morning. Matthew was going to court.

  Robin had failed.

  Next to the phone, there was a packet of cookies. And a neon yellow Post-it note:

  Gone back to The Door. Called the police about Man.

  Going to write article. (Don’t worry, I’ve got this.)

  SALLY

  Sally. Had Sally got him back here all on her own? And what did she mean “I’ve got this”? How could she possibly “have it”? They’d run out of time—Matthew McConnell was going in front of a judge. And their arrangement would be void. Would Matthew still tell him what he knew about Samantha, from behind a set of bars?

  No. The answer was no.

  The phone rang again, and Robin unplugged it, holding it to his ear. He suddenly felt incredibly hungry and ripped into the packet of cookies, stuffing a whole one in his mouth, not caring about the person at the other end of the line.

  “You beautiful bastard,” a familiar voice said. Loamfield. He sounded happy. “You know, I must admit I didn’t think you had it in you. The trial of the century just became the trial of the millennium. And I’m at the forefront. I just want to personally thank you for letting me be a part of this. I’m going to be a superstar. I just can’t believe it. I can hike up all my fees now. I can...” He continued jabbering on. Robin had no idea what he was talking about. He just finished his cookie and swallowed.

  “What are you saying?”

  This stopped Loamfield. “Don’t act like that—no need to be all humble around me, you glorious son of a bitch.”

  “Loamfield, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  It seemed Loamfield believed him, because he grew quiet, and then just said, “Turn on the TV. Right now. BBC News.”

  Robin sighed and fumbled around the room, finally finding the TV remote. He clicked it and the small box suddenly spluttered into life. He went to BBC News and saw a banner saying Breaking News. The image was of a building that looked very familiar—it was New Hall. A semicircle of people were gathered around the front steps, seemingly waiting for something. They all had microphones, or cameras, or boom mics, and there was a steady thrum of chatter. Until suddenly everyone collectively silenced.

  “This was you, right?” Loamfield was saying on the phone, but Robin put it on the bed, staring intently at the television.

  Roger Claypath walked into the shot in his shiny suit. He mounted the steps, standing directly in front of the main entrance that Robin had used himself. He held no sheet of paper, no cue cards. He didn’t look happy, and as he looked at the camera, Robin couldn’t help but feel he was looking directly at him. “Thank you all for coming. This is a public statement about the circumstances surrounding the Standedge Incident, and the status of the investigation into what happened to the missing young people that the community and media have come to call the Standedge Five. Please refrain from asking questions, as I am not taking any at this time.

  “In the early hours of yesterday morning, we received an anonymous phone call that led police to discover an alternative entrance to the disused railway tunnel that runs parallel to, and is explicitly connected to, Standedge Canal Tunnel. The caller stated that they saw a disheveled man leaving a crack in the side of the tunnel in distress. Police found what can only be described as a shelter of sorts inside the railway tunnel. It was sufficiently hidden by rocks, but the man seemed to have abandoned it, leaving in a hurry, and had not replaced them properly on this occasion. This is how he was able to evade the initial search.

  “It appears that the shelter had been lived in for a long time, leading us to believe that this confirms the rumors of the individual colloquially referred to as the Standedge Monster. The tunnel will remain monitored, although we are mostly sure that he has abandoned his makeshift home for good. We are working hard to locate this individual as well as ascertain his actual identity. Who knows how long the man has actually called the tunnel his home or how well he knows the surrounding areas, but every hour we get closer to establishing the facts of this man’s life. If anyone believes they have sighted the Standedge Monster, please contact your local law enforcement. The anonymous call described him as a thin man of average height with unkempt long black hair and a long black beard. He is dressed in a ragged and dirty white T-shirt and muddy gray tracksuit trousers. I know that isn’t exactly a lot to go on, but when we have an official picture of the man, we will circulate it to all news outlets.

  “This comes to the subject of Matthew McConnell, and his current situation. It is clear now that law enforcement, guided by myself, have been too hasty in wanting to resolve this investigation due to public interest and...personal emotion, not only from myself but from the squad. This has been a misstep. I am by no means saying that McConnell is not involved in the disappearance of the Standedge Five. He is still heavily a suspect in this investigation. But it is clear circumstances yesterday, as is sometimes the case, are not the same as circumstances today.

  “Therefore, the court session that was set for today, regarding Matthew McConnell’s ongoing incarceration, has been postponed. Given that we now have an alternative timeline of what could have occurred in the tunnel on the 26th of June 2018, we have decided to release Matthew McConnell pending further investigation. I must stress that this is not because he is innocent. There are still many questions to be answered about what happened on that fateful journey, and McConnell is still heavily embroiled.

  “Matth
ew McConnell will be released later today, but placed under house arrest. He will also have a police presence outside his house until further notice. I must stress that this is not only for his own protection, but very possibly for the people of Marsden as well.

  “Thank you for your time. We will be providing regular updates as the investigation into this man progresses.” Claypath stepped away, out of frame. And the television cut to a wide shot of the throng of reporters following him as he bypassed them and went down the steps. There were shouts from various journalists.

  “Would you say that the arrest of Matthew McConnell was premature?” one asked.

  “Was the judgment in any way influenced by your personal stake in this case?” another asked.

  “Is this grounds for resignation?” yet another said.

  But Claypath did not respond. He didn’t even acknowledge the questions had been asked. He just made his way down the steps and into the back of a black car. As it pulled out, the reporters swarmed behind it and kept shouting.

  Robin picked up his phone, bewildered. He couldn’t think. Matthew McConnell was going free. The court hearing was canceled.

  “So it was you, right?” Loamfield said, as though the conversation had never stopped. “You called in the anonymous tip?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, whatever—wink, wink and all that. You’ve been a busy boy. You and this Red Door thing.”

  “What?”

  “There’s an article about the Monster blowing up on social media. You are named.”

  Robin got up, pulled his laptop out of the desk drawer and opened it, navigating to The Red Door through his history. The main page flashed up and Robin read the name of the latest post: The Standedge Monster Is Real (PROOF!!). There was another article under it: There Is Another Way into Standedge! They were both posted in the early hours of the morning.

  Robin didn’t need to read the articles. He had lived them. But he did skim them to try to find his name. It didn’t take long. It was at the bottom of the first one: