The Terror at Grisly Park (Quigg 5)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘This one isn’t empty either – I’m sleeping here.’

  ‘You can sleep on the floor.’

  ‘As someone once said to me, “You have a very strange imagination, Tolliver”.’

  ‘All right, we can both sleep in the bed, but don’t think your luck has changed. You touch me and I’ll scream the place down.’

  ‘Surely there’s a doorway somewhere that you can find to huddle up in.’

  ‘I thought we were friends now.’

  ‘I don’t recall us becoming friends, and even if we were . . .’ He was too tired to be bothered. She could do what she wanted. He stripped off the dressing gown, climbed back into the bed and switched the light off. ‘Do what you want.’

  ‘I hope you’re wearing pyjamas,’ she said as she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door.’

  He drifted off to sleep, but was shaken awake shortly afterwards.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re doing things.’

  ‘Things? What things?’

  ‘With your hands . . . and your thing.’

  ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  He reached out a hand and came into contact with her bare back. ‘You have no clothes on.’

  ‘Neither do you.’

  ‘Go to sleep and don’t wake me up again.’

  He tried hard to get back to sleep, but he kept thinking of Tolliver lying naked next to him. Forgetting the large mouth – although he was sure it might have some advantages over a small mouth – she was reasonably attractive with a good figure. The more he tried to push the image of her from his mind, the more he thought about her, and the harder his erection became. He was about to enter the halls of martyrdom and go back to sleep when she moved backwards . . . Yes, she definitely moved backwards. He was sure he hadn’t moved forwards. She was rubbing against him . . .

  Jesus! He was never going to get any sleep if this carried on. He shook her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re doing things.’

  ‘What things? My hands are in front of me.’

  ‘You moved back and started rubbing yourself against me.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting, you pervert.’

  She moved forwards, but had soon shuffled backwards again.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Brushing against my back.’

  He sighed and turned over.

  She turned over as well and pushed against him.

  ‘What’s going on, Tolliver?’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Why can’t you sleep?’

  She reached over and took him in her hand. ‘I think you know very well why I can’t sleep.’

  ‘I thought you said you were going to scream.’

  ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.’

  ‘Maybe I should scream,’ he said climbing between her open legs and pushing himself into her.

  She wrapped her arms around his back and pushed to meet him. ‘Maybe you should,’ she whispered in his ear.

  Afterwards, they finally went to sleep.

  ***

  Thursday, July 5

  Avery Malpass scrambled up the hoardings in front of the Clown’s Revenge using a tree trunk as leverage. At the top, he threw his rucksack over, then hung by his arms and dropped to the ground.

  It was a waxing crescent moon. He was overweight, unfit and he couldn’t see the ground beneath him. When he landed, his ankle gave way and pain shot up his left leg and shrivelled his testicles. If he’d had any medical knowledge he would have known that he’d torn the calcaneo-fibular ligament on the lateral aspect of his ankle quite badly. It didn’t need surgical intervention, but it would be difficult to walk on for a couple of weeks.

  ‘Shit!’ he said, sitting down and massaging his ankle.

  He tried to stand, but it was bloody painful. What choice did he have. He couldn’t sit there and wait for the emergency services to arrive. Switching his torch on, he hobbled forward and found his rucksack. He shone the light around trying to find something he could use as a crutch or walking stick, but there was nothing easily to hand.

  It took him a couple of hours to reach the entrance to the Clown’s Revenge. He sat down, made himself a coffee and took two painkillers. His ankle had swollen to nearly twice its normal size and he’d had to loosen the lace of his boot to accommodate the expansion.

  The entrance had been boarded up, but the hardboard was loose and he could see a way in. Looking around, he found a three-foot metal pole that looked as though it had been forgotten by the scaffolders. Where it came from was of little concern to him, just so long as it helped him keep the weight off his ankle. The pole wasn’t ideal because it was made from heavy metal, but until he could find something lighter it would have to do.

  Where was everyone? He’d expected to find them all outside worshipping the moon, or something equally useless. There should have been a lookout at least. Hugo Twelvetrees should have been weaving his doomsday magic to a bunch of slavering followers – including his daughter – Willow.

  What would she do when she saw him? He was hoping she’d run to him, say what a fool she’d been and beg to come back home. But if his search for her had taught him anything, it was to be realistic. She would probably tell him to slither back under the rock he’d crawled out from.

  His rucksack needed to go through the gap first and then he followed it by easing himself into the darkness. The small torch he’d brought with him wouldn’t last long and the dead would hear him coming with the hollow echoing sound of the scaffold pole clunking as he walked.

  What could he do? There was no way he could hobble beyond this point without the pole to lean on. He switched the torch off and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There wasn’t a speck of light – he couldn’t see a thing. He’d have bought spare batteries if he’d anticipated this situation, but he hadn’t. So, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just have to go as far as he could, and hope that something turned up. He sounded like Wilkins Micawber from David Copperfield living in hopeful expectation, but it was either that or give up.

  He switched the torch on and started forward along the walkway through the psychopathic clown’s mouth.

  Clunk.

  Clunk.

  Clunk.

  Chapter Eleven

  Why was having sex in the shower so erotic? Maybe it was something to do with the soap lather, the cleanliness or the shampoo bubbles. Apart from the fact that he was standing up and he found it nearly impossible to ejaculate in the vertical position, the water was also dripping everywhere and putting him off his deliberations.

  Despite these insurmountable odds though, he managed to fulfil his mission. There would have been nothing worse than an inability to father future generations of Quiggs. He could imagine the scenario playing out:

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she would say. Pity would ooze from her words like syrup and she’d look at him as if he had an incurable disease.

  ‘It’s the first time it’s ever happened,’ he would say without any real conviction in his voice.

  She’d touch his arm. ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Come on,’ he’d say trying to appear manly. ‘Let me show you I can still do it.’

  ‘You don’t have to, and anyway . . .’ She’d point at his shrunken penis and smirk. ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘It’ll be all right . . . it just needs some coaxing.’

  ‘What with? Perhaps breadcrumbs would work, or strawberry jam. Something like that, you mean?’

  He’d sit on the bed, bury his face in his hands and weep.

  Tolliver nudged him from his imaginary world. ‘What are we going to do today?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘We’re partners now, aren’t we?’

  ‘I have a partner.’

  ‘That’s not what your constable told me.’

  ‘A temporary situation on
ly.’

  ‘As will be our partnership. Once we’ve found all the pieces of the story and fitted them together I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  Considering that they’d only met last night, Jessie Tolliver wasn’t exactly a wilting wallflower. After she’d finished drying herself, she pranced around naked making a coffee.

  She pulled a face. ‘You want to do something about that.’

  He tried to hide his erection. ‘I don’t know if you know anything about the mechanics of a penis, but it’s not something a man can control. Now, if you put some clothes on I might stand a chance.’

  ‘That’s right, blame the woman.’ She walked towards him with an outstretched hand.

  He backed away. ‘It’s time for breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not a medical specialist, but I think I might have a cure for that.’

  ‘A cure that has failed to work twice already.’

  She pushed him back onto the bed. ‘Maybe it’ll be third time lucky.’

  Afterwards he said, ‘I think you need to get down to the patent office with that cure before someone beats you to it.’

  ‘It worked then?’

  ‘For the moment, but I have the feeling it’s only a temporary cure. The underlying condition remains a significant problem.’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  They walked down to breakfast. He had the full English as usual, and she chose some odd looking meat and cheese from the continental buffet.

  ‘I had a strange dream last night,’ she said once they were sitting down eating.

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I think I had that dream as well.’

  ‘No, I’m not talking about that one. They came into the room and took us . . .’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes, you were there. We were strapped to an altar of some kind. Men and women were dancing around chanting. They were all naked, except for a strange mask . . .’

  ‘What do you mean, “A strange mask”?’

  ‘You know those stone statues on Easter Island?’

  ‘The faces?’

  ‘Yes. The masks were like that, but each one was different.’

  The smile left his face as a sliver of memory forced its way into his conscious mind. He rolled up his sleeve and found the needle mark.

  She rolled up her sleeve as well. ‘Snap.’

  ‘Bloody hell. What’s going on?’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t a dream?’

  He didn’t say anything. He was thinking about Magdalena and the earring.

  ***

  Avery Malpass had been hobbling along the walkway for what seemed like hours. He wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling he’d been gradually walking downwards. The batteries of his torch had died some time ago and all he could see were vague outlines.

  If he didn’t hate clowns before, he hated them now. Weren’t clowns meant to be a child’s best friend? Stephen King had a lot to answer for, that was for sure.

  His ankle was throbbing as if it was going to burst any minute if he didn’t stop walking. He shrugged off his rucksack and sat on it. Where were the Cult of Bugarach? Where was Hugo Twelvetrees? And more importantly, where was his daughter Willow? Had those kids lied to him? Maybe they didn’t know where she was. Maybe they’d said the first thing that came to mind to stop him following them.

  He hadn’t heard or seen anything that would indicate people were living down here. There were no smells of cooked food or body odour, no discarded takeaway cartons and no bodies scattered around after a mass suicide.

  Pushing himself up with the pole and putting the rucksack back on, he set off again. The longer he spent in the darkness, he imagined the more he could see. In reality, he couldn’t see a damned thing. Probably, if he’d eaten more carrots when he was growing up, he’d be able to see like a badger now. Instead, with the help of the wall to his left, the best he could do was stumble forwards.

  Then he heard it. A clanking sound, like a chain being dragged across the floor.

  He stopped and listened. Although he made his ears pop, he still heard nothing. It had been the first noise he had heard since he’d entered the Clown’s Revenge. His heart was racing. He felt optimistic that someone else was down here besides him.

  Clunk.

  Clunk.

  Clunk.

  It wasn’t as if he was going to sneak up on them. He stopped. It made him nervous that they could hear him coming. There was nothing he could see to replace the pole and he couldn’t walk without it. Then he had an idea and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. He took his rucksack off again, rummaged in a side pocket and pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of socks. After slipping the socks onto the end of the pole, he tied the t-shirt around the top of the socks to stop them falling off.

  When he set off again, there was hardly any noise, but it didn’t last. After about twenty minutes the pole tore through the socks and he began clunking again. He sat down and re-fashioned something more substantial using knots and the t-shirt, which was a lot more effective. Now, he could creep up on them like a ninja.

  He kept on, and eventually saw a dim light ahead of him. Now, he was excited. To think – after months of searching – he might see his daughter in a short while. Even if she told him she didn’t want to see him, at least he’d know she was alive. How long for as a member of a doomsday cult was a debatable question, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  At last, he reached a rest stop called Pogo’s Place. There was a flickering light above the entrance. On the wall was a plaque with the name: John Wayne Gacy. The plaque stated that the Killer Clown had murdered thirty-three teenage boys and young men between 1972 and 1978.

  He slipped the rucksack off and left it by the entrance. Then he went inside Pogo’s Place.

  ‘Hello?’ he called.

  The sound of clanking chains accompanied a female voice. ‘Oh God! Yes, here.’

  He was in a small room. Facing him were two heavy metal doors with large hinges and metal grills three-quarters of the way up. There were also three doors exactly the same to his left and three to his right. It was as if he’d walked into the dungeon beneath a castle. Each door had a large keyhole, but there was no key in sight.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why are you in there?’ he said to the woman behind the grill. He could have asked her so many questions, but that’s what came out of his mouth.

  ‘The clown put us in here.’

  ‘Clown! What clown?’

  She screamed and pointed behind him. ‘That one.’

  But before he could turn round everything went black.

  ***

  After breakfast they went to the command centre. The day shift were just coming on.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked Cheal before she left, hoping she’d heard something from Kline.

  Cheal shook her head.

  ‘Thanks ladies,’ he said as the three night staff left. ‘Right Coveney, give me the keys to your car.’

  Coveney laughed.

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be funny.’

  ‘I go where my car goes.’

  ‘You’re needed here, and I need a car to get to Dr Hudson’s place.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I could arrest you, impound your car as evidence in a major crime and just drive it away.’

  ‘Or you could ask the garage to bring you a new car and take the Audi back.’

  ‘You could arrange that for me. Anyway, that’ll take most of the day and I can’t spare the time. It would be so much simpler if you just hand over your keys like a good little constable.’

  She ignored him.

  He sighed.

  ‘Or we could use my car,’ Tolliver offered.

  ‘You’ve got a car?’

  ‘How do you think I got here – on a unicycle?’

  ‘Okay, give me your keys.’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I can’t take a civilian with me.’

  ‘Have a nice wa
lk then.’

  ‘Everybody wants to be a comedian.’

  ‘You especially if you think I’d just hand over the keys to my baby.’

  What choice did he have? He could take the Audi, but its guts were hanging out and apart from the ignition nothing else would probably work. The garage weren’t going to be very happy about that. Kline would be lucky if they let her sign out the station jalopy in future. Where the hell was she? It had been twenty-four hours since he’d heard anything from her now. He feared the worst. If Kline could have contacted him, she would have.

  ‘All right, but you’re just my driver. You stay in the car. Is that clear?’

  ‘Of course. I drive you around in my car like a chauffeur and stay put.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’ To Coveney he said, ‘Did you get the map of the asylum as it was in 1973 and the list of patients who were transferred to Shenley?’

  She slid a stapled list and a cardboard tube across the worktop. ‘Don’t forget the staff list I gave you yesterday.’

  He’d put it somewhere safe. Where? He looked around to jog his memory, but nothing came to mind. He turned back to Coveney. ‘Have you . . . ?’

  She was holding the list in front of her. ‘It’s a good job I saw where you’d put it.’

  ‘I would have remembered if you hadn’t moved it.’

  The corner of her mouth went up. ‘No doubt.’

  He picked everything up. ‘Come on, Tolliver. Let’s get out of this insane asylum.’

  They had to use one of the hotel buggies to reach the main entrance and then walk to the car park.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he said, when she showed him her car.

  ‘Voted one of the fifty worst cars of all time.’

  He blew a raspberry. ‘I can believe that.’

  ‘It’s a Trabant.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘This particular one is a Trabant 601, which was built in 1963 in East Germany. It was driven through Checkpoint Charlie when the Berlin Wall restrictions were lifted in 1989. It cost me seventy-five pounds.’

  ‘You want to make a complaint to the ombudsman.’