by S W Kane
The space ahead lit up, and he blinked a few times to adjust to the light, which illuminated the circular room in front of him – or, as he called it, the bone jar. Strings of small lights hung around the periphery, tacked on to shelves and hooks – anything he’d been able to find – and the effect reminded him of a galaxy. He had no idea where the electricity supply came from, or who paid the bills, but for some reason it had never been disconnected when the rest of Blackwater had.
He padded his way over to a cupboard that ran the entire circumference of the room, apart from where the two entrances interrupted it. The cupboard was divided into four segments, each quarter accessed by a series of sliding panels, and he carefully slid one open and looked inside.
His collection.
When he’d first found them, Raymond hadn’t been sure what he was looking at – copper canisters of some kind, some over a century old, with names on them – and it was only after rootling about a bit more that he’d come across an old ledger and realised what they were: the unclaimed ashes of past Blackwater patients. That was how he’d come to call the room the bone jar. If he was going to be pedantic about it – another one of Mrs Muir’s phrases – the canisters were the bone jars, but somehow the name had stuck for the hidden, subterranean, circular room. I’m off to the bone jar, he’d mumble, before leaving the Old Lodge.
Most of the ashes contained in the canisters went further back than Raymond could comprehend – anything before the year 1927, when Jaffa Cakes and the telly had been invented, was beyond his imagination. These were even older, going back to a number he didn’t even recognise, which began with 18. There was one canister, however, which was more recent – 1968 – and which Raymond treasured above the others. It held the ashes of Gregory Boothe, perhaps the best friend he’d ever had at Blackwater, or maybe ever – not that he would admit that to Mrs Muir, who as far as she was concerned held pole position. He’d drawn his first smiley face on the day Gregory died, the scream inside his head so loud that he was afraid to open his mouth in case he broke a window. Not that that first little face he’d drawn on the inside of the toilet door – the only place Ena wouldn’t find him – was smiling. It still haunted him that his friend’s ashes had been left in the bone jar for thirty years before he’d come along and found them. It was then that he’d made his pledge; these unclaimed souls – fifty-two in total – were now his responsibility and would never be forgotten again.
Since the discovery of the canisters, his visits to the bone jar had become a regular part of his routine, and he enjoyed going there. He’d polish the canisters, dust the shelves and have a little natter with them. Along with Gregory, they now all felt like old friends, and he thought fondly of his mother back at the Lodge. He savoured his visits here, but with work on the redevelopment imminent he’d begun to worry. His forays to the bone jar to protect these forgotten people were going to become more difficult, if not downright impossible, so he’d decided to take action.
He began going through the canisters, trying to decide who would be the first evacuees – Gregory, obviously, getting first dibs. He’d arranged them in the cabinet in alphabetical order and thought that, for ease, he should probably begin removing them in the same order – then he’d know where he was. He picked up Roy Gallows, turning the canister round in his hands. He’d made up stories for some of the names – background, employment, what they ate for supper – and he’d resisted the urge to give Mr Gallows the job of hangman. Instead Raymond liked to think he’d been a clown, or a horse trainer – something a little more, well, sociable.
He put Gallows back and decided he’d better get cracking when he noticed that Gregory Boothe was next to Alardice. That was odd; he must have moved Barnes just now without realising.
Get a move on, Raymond, he could hear his mother’s voice saying. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he mumbled as he slipped Alardice into one pocket and Barnes into the other. Picking up Gregory, he slid the cabinet door closed and stood up.
He switched off the galaxy lights and made his way back along the tunnel. As he emerged into the light and sat panting on the floor of the pillbox, he thought about the canisters. He must have imagined it, but like a few other things recently at the lodge, he could have sworn that they’d been moved.
CHAPTER 22
When Connie reached the Optic Bar at six-fifteen the place was heaving, and it took her a while to spot Mole slouched in a corner, nose buried in a book. He’d called to say he was back from Poland earlier that afternoon, and they’d arranged to meet that evening.
The small cellar bar was steamy and warm, filled with people finishing work for the weekend and the odd tourist who had wandered in. She pushed her way through the drinkers towards Mole, who looked up and smiled when he saw her coming.
Mole was tall and well-built and wore his dark hair shoulder-length, swept back off his face, his brown eyes radiating mischief. Tonight he was wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt and faded black jeans, and an old sheepskin coat was slung over the back of his chair.
‘You got a seat,’ said Connie, when she reached the table. ‘Well done.’
‘Come here,’ he said, standing up and giving her a big hug. ‘You okay?’ he asked, studying her at arm’s length.
‘Yeah, but boy am I glad to see you.’ It suddenly felt as though the past few days had crept up on her. She’d had no one to talk to, apart from her evening with Harry, and seeing Mole she felt a bit overwhelmed.
‘Come on, neck a couple of these, and you’ll feel better,’ said Mole. They sat down, and he poured two glasses of wine from a bottle on the table. ‘You look tired.’ He slid a glass towards her as she took off her coat.
‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Connie, taking a good long slug of wine. ‘You’re right though, I’m knackered.’
‘You still look great, knackered or not.’
‘Charmer.’ They clinked glasses, and she began to feel slightly better, the wine hitting her system like a speeding train. ‘So, how was Poland?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you know, just a bit awesome. Droog and Claus sorted some really amazing explores. Wish you’d been able to come, you’d have loved it.’
‘Don’t,’ said Connie, thinking about her trip to Oxford and how dull it had been.
‘Anyhow, Poland can wait – what’s all this shit about Ed? It sounds serious.’
‘It is.’ Leaning forward so that their heads almost touched, Connie told Mole exactly what had happened, from her last conversation with Ed on Tuesday, to her visit from Kirby and her evening at Harry’s when she’d found the clipping.
Mole sat staring at his glass for a few moments after she’d finished. ‘I made a few calls before I came out,’ he said. ‘You’re right, no one’s seen or heard from him in three days, and I mean no one.’
‘Shit,’ said Connie under her breath.
‘A couple of people have even had calls from the police.’
Kirby had obviously been doing his homework, and she guessed that before long she’d be getting another call.
‘What about this dead woman, the nurse?’ Mole went on. ‘If what Harry told you is true, and Ed had started doing some oral history, he might have tracked her down. He had her name from the clipping you mentioned.’
She shook her head. ‘No. At least that’s what Harry said, and he seemed quite sure. Apparently they used to call her Nurse Ratched, like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.’
‘Fucking hell, really? We don’t know Ed didn’t meet her though – I’m sure he doesn’t tell Harry everything. Great name though – wonder what she did to deserve that?’ He chuckled.
‘Even if Ed had interviewed her, what on earth could that have to do with her being killed? Whatever she did at Blackwater was, like, decades ago.’
‘Yeah, true.’ Mole went quiet, staring gloomily into his wine. ‘Actually, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘What?’ asked Connie, who’d wandered off into her own little world.
‘It wa
s meant to be a surprise. I swore I wouldn’t say anything but . . .’ He took another slug of wine before continuing. ‘Ed had found out who your sister was with when she had the accident. He had a name for you.’
‘What?’ For a moment, she wondered if she’d heard him correctly, and almost asked him to repeat it. She’d long given up any hope of finding out who Sarah had been with that fateful day, because, despite the best efforts of the police – never mind Ed and Mole, who’d used all their urbex contacts to try to find out – it was like the person had never existed.
‘It was going to be a surprise on Tuesday, being the anniversary and everything,’ said Mole, quietly.
‘Did he say who it was, how he found out?’
‘No, he didn’t tell me who, and I don’t know how he found out. He called just as I was getting on the plane, and some dickhead was in my seat. I was zoning in and out of the chat.’
‘You don’t think it’s connected to him disappearing, do you?’
Mole shook his head. ‘I don’t see how. Your sister’s death was an accident. This is all to do with this old nurse.’
She suddenly remembered something Harry had said. ‘Hang on, when did you go to Poland?’
‘Sunday afternoon. Why?’
‘There was a name and address at Harry’s, on a Post-it. Ed had underlined the word Sarah beneath, and Harry said he went to see someone on Sunday afternoon. Maybe that was them.’
‘Cons, don’t get too excited. That could have been anyone. Really.’
‘Hmm, maybe.’
Mole smiled. ‘Sorry. I’m just trying to be realistic.’
‘I know, and you’re right.’ She smiled back. ‘How about we kill this bottle,’ she said, topping up their wine. She didn’t care what Mole had just said. The name and address had been clear, and whoever it was was connected to Sarah, she was now sure.
‘Deal. Cheers,’ he said, and they clinked glasses again. ‘And Rats, wherever the fuck you are mate, give us a sign.’
They chatted about Poland and some new places that they planned to explore, but all she could think about was that Ed had found out who Sarah was with when she had the accident. After a while, fatigue kicked in.
‘I’m done,’ she said, draining the last of her wine. ‘D’you mind if we go?’
‘Lightweight,’ said Mole, smiling. They put their coats on and began making their way out of the bar towards the stairs that led up to ground level. The crowd had thinned out now, but it was still a cramped space, with piles of bags and big winter coats to negotiate.
‘That’s better,’ said Connie, once they were outside. The air was soberingly cold, and an icy wind was blowing. She pulled up her coat collar, her breath trailing out into the darkness.
‘It was warmer in bloody Poland,’ said Mole, as they walked to the Tube.
‘Have you even been to Marsh House?’ asked Connie, suddenly remembering her appointment on Monday.
‘The place next to Blackwater? Went up the drive once for a nose.’
‘The woman who lived there died and left us some plans. I’m going on Monday to collect them.’
‘Apparently that outfit who’ve bought the asylum are desperate to get their hands on it,’ said Mole.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Ed did, ages ago.’
‘Jesus,’ mumbled Connie.
‘It’s gotta be listed, but the land alone has to be worth a packet.’
‘Maybe it’ll get sold off now,’ she said.
They’d reached the Tube station and stopped by the steps. Their breath mingled in the air between them.
‘So, this is where we say goodnight then,’ said Mole.
‘I’ll call you.’ She pulled her coat tighter. ‘And thanks for tonight. I’m glad you’re back.’
‘Me too.’ He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a tight hug. ‘Keep me posted. And if you need company, you know where I am.’ Then he kissed her on the forehead and was gone.
She headed down the steps to the Tube, gusts of warm air enveloping her as she rode the escalator. As the train hurtled along, she stared out of the window trying to see past the reflections into the tunnel beyond. She remembered the thrill of her first foray into the Underground system as an explorer, of standing in a parallel tunnel as a train sped by, its passengers unaware that they were being watched. It was like seeing a snapshot of people’s lives, and gone in a second.
As usual, it felt several degrees colder at the Four Sails than it had in central London. Terror wrapped himself around her ankles as she unlocked the door.
‘What’re you doing out here, big boy?’ she asked, letting them both in. He was mewing as though he’d never been fed, and he followed her through the bar and into the kitchen. The Four Sails had been a small pub – quaint even – with a small front bar and an even smaller snug at the back.
She grabbed a tin of cat food and began opening it without taking off her coat, wondering why the heating hadn’t kicked in – the place was like a fridge. While Terror tucked into his Whiskas Finest, she went over to the boiler and looked at the timer, frowning. She could have sworn she’d set the heating to come on for an hour tonight, but it was firmly in the ‘Off’ position. Just as she turned it on, hearing the familiar whoomf as the ignition kicked in, her phone started ringing.
‘Yes?’ she answered, going over to the cat flap as she spoke.
‘It’s DI Kirby. I’m sorry to call so late.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ She stopped by the door, dreading bad news.
‘Sorry, no news. That’s not why I’m calling.’
‘Oh . . .’ Relief and disappointment flooded through her simultaneously. She nudged the cat flap with her toe.
‘I was wondering if we could meet tomorrow. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘Um, yes. Of course.’ The cat flap didn’t budge, and she bent down for a closer look. The damn thing was locked.
‘Are you okay, Miss Darke?’
‘Yes, sorry. Just fiddling with the cat flap. Carry on.’
‘Perhaps we could meet at 11 a.m. at Blackwater? Main entrance?’
‘Fine. Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘It’ll keep until tomorrow. See you then.’
‘But—’ She was too late; he’d already hung up. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the cat flap. It was one that operated with a magnetic collar that you could lock four ways, and somehow it had been locked so Terror couldn’t get in – or out. She adjusted the lock so he could come and go freely, and stood up.
‘Sorry, little man, dunno what happened there.’
Terror followed her around the pub as she checked all the windows as well as the front and back doors, something gnawing away in the back of her mind. Then she made sure the heating was set to come on again in the morning and climbed into bed, Terror shadowing her every move. Lying in the dark, the only sound Terror’s gentle purring, her mind once again went back to what Mole had told her earlier. He had a name for you. She thought about the Post-it note on Ed’s desk, with a name and address written on it and her sister’s name beneath. It had to be the person who was with Sarah when she had the accident, didn’t it?
She eventually drifted off to sleep, waking every now and then, feeling Terror’s small body curled up next to her. It would only be when she woke early the next morning that she’d remember what had been bothering her the night before as she locked up. When she’d left for work yesterday, Terror had been indoors, she was positive. In which case, how had he got out if the cat flap was locked?
CHAPTER 23
Quaalude, the trade name for methaqualone, was known as Mandrax in the UK. By the mid-1980s, Quaaludes – or disco biscuits as they became known – had been listed as a Class B drug in the UK, making it illegal to manufacture or sell. Why the hell would Ena Massey, an eighty-four-year-old woman, be full of them?
Kirby put the pathology report down and rubbed his eyes. They felt as though some
one had thrown a barrel-load of grit into them. He longed to be back on the boat, stretched out listening to some music. Instead he was at Mount Pleasant, where the heating was on overtime – pumping it out to a sub-tropical level – stripped down to his T-shirt and jeans. What he wouldn’t give for an ice-cold beer right now. At least it was quiet, most people having called it a night – Kobrak was still floating about somewhere, and Anderson had gone off to meet a snitch about the Quaaludes.
Kirby gathered up the report, as well as the letters found at Ena Massey’s, and started getting ready to leave. He was glad he’d been able to arrange to meet Connie the following morning. He wanted to pick her brains about Blackwater and anything she could tell him about the history of Keats Ward. Everyone Kobrak had managed to dig up only ever remembered the room Ena was found in as a television room – or rather, that’s all they’d admit to remembering – and that had been short-lived, the ward block itself falling out of use in 1980.
He was about to put his coat on when Hamer stuck his head around the door.
‘Lew,’ he said. ‘Step inside for a moment.’
He hadn’t realised his boss was still there and he sighed, taking off a layer before going into Hamer’s office and sitting down. A small desk fan whirred in the corner.
‘Drink?’ Hamer asked. He looked tired.
‘Not unless you’ve got some cold beer and an iced glass.’