by Paul Starkey
The last words that voice spoke to Quintus. The last words that voice spoke to anyone.
I will not be cowed by a voice, not be intimidated by a damn house. He lifted the gun. “Step outside, Felix.”
The boy shrugged. “Ok.” He tugged his jacket tight around him and stepped through the doorway. Head down, as if that might stop the rain from striking his head, he took three steps into the night before Quintus ordered him to stop.
He complied instantly, understandable given the gun he knew was pointed at his back. Quintus stared at him for almost half a minute. Until eventually the kid turned around. His jacket was sodden, his dark hair plastered now to his forehead. He looked decidedly unhappy, but also undecided, like he wanted to ask to come back inside, but realised that would be a bad idea.
“You don’t see it, do you?”
Felix frowned. He looked behind him, looked left, right, then back at Ibex. “See what?”
Quintus stared at the boy, stared beyond the boy. There, half a dozen yards beyond where Felix stood, he saw a pale nebulous shape drifting towards the doorway. It clung close to the ground like low lying mist, though he knew on some preternatural level that this was no natural phenomena. A small, elliptical cloud of luminous white fog, hovering about as far above the ground as the body of a dog might stand upon its legs.
Not a dog though. With each passing second it drifted closer to the doorway, and grew somehow more distinct, more corporeal. And it was not alone. Beside it was another form, pale again, but taller, straighter, perhaps the size of a woman, or a short man.
The forms were almost upon Felix now, but still the boy showed no sign of having seen them. Again he looked over his shoulder but when he looked back there was no terror in his eyes; well none beyond that which had already been there, and which Ibex knew he was responsible for.
Details were beginning to become distinct now. The form close to the ground was a wolf obviously, whilst the shape by its side was a man—though Ibex could see no features, just the vague shapes of legs, torso, arms, a faceless head…
And, oh sweet Jesus, behind these figures, in the darkness, more shapes, more spectres, a legion of them, striding along behind the wolf and the man, an army of restless souls.
“What is it?” At last a tremor of real fear in Felix’s voice, because no matter how good an actor Ibex was, even he couldn’t keep every trace of horror from his face.
Still the American said nothing, offered no warning as the ghostly wolf and its human companion walked either side of the boy. They were more corporeal now, to the point where he could make out old fashioned dress on the man. The rain passed right through them both, and through their followers, and yet curiously the hairs on the man’s head, on the wolf’s back, seemed to flutter in the wind.
And now a new figure, walking just behind the man and wolf, ahead of the rest of the phantasms. Again it was indistinct, but he saw enough to recognise the obese silhouette, so typical of the beef burger munching man he’d been, and he staggered slightly as he walked, as if he were still drunk.
Another few seconds and they’d be through the doorway, another few seconds after that and they’d be on top of him. And still the voice of a dead man continued its preprogramed litany.
For perhaps the first moment in his life, Quintus Armstrong lost control. In one swift movement he raised the gun, took aim and fire.
And Felix screamed.
Chapter Forty four
Despite what Chalice had said about the wound not being bad, Tyrell still mentally winced every time he looked down and saw that knife embedded in Cheung’s torso.
He licked his lips. Despite the tonic water his mouth was still dry, and he contemplated going and getting another bottle, no matter what Chalice had said. And beyond additional bottles of tonic, there was whisky and vodka too, and right now the urge to taste alcohol was rising within him; Anything to calm his nerves, anything to give him courage, even if it was only of the Dutch variety.
He didn’t move. In part because he was afraid that Chalice would need him, afraid that suddenly the wound in Thomas’ chest would start gushing blood, and even if he were only a few steps away it might make the difference between life and death. Mostly though it was because he knew his tolerance for alcohol was now about on par with the average ten year old. Back in the day a slug of whisky would have calmed his nerves, right now it’d be more likely to send him to sleep, and whilst the idea of closing his eyes and drifting off was appealing—his body ached from tiredness, his chest felt taut from it—he knew that that way lay death.
Besides he feared the dream/remembrance would return.
“John?”
He looked down at Chalice, instantly realising from the look in her eyes, from the volume of the word, that it wasn’t the first time she’d called his name.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “What is it?”
She smiled. “It’s ok, John. Everyone’s allowed a moment, especially in a situation like this, just try not to have another one for a while.”
“Ok.” He felt like an idiot, a child; like an idiot child.
“I need you to see if you can find me some plastic. A carrier bag would be best but whatever you can find.”
He nodded. “Ok, I’ll see what…”
Given how on edge he’d been for hours now, he was surprised that the single gunshot didn’t give him heart failure. But all it served to do was cut him off mid-sentence.
His eyes locked with Chalice’s. They both spoke as one, a single word.
“Felix.”
No time for plastic now. Tyrell picked up the pistol from the table, surprising himself with the lack of hesitation in doing so. He took three steps towards the door, eager to dash to Felix’s aid, even as a snide little voice at the back of his mind advised that it was far too late for the heroic rescue.
The time to go after him was before Ibex shot him, not after. Idiot!
He was a stride away from the door. He turned back. “This isn’t going to open for me,” he said. “Same reason it wouldn’t open for Quintus. How about…”
“How about me?” She walked over and took the door handle. She didn’t even trouble to draw the Beretta because she knew it wouldn’t open. And it didn’t.
He watched her face harden, saw fire in her eyes. She looked upwards. “Fucking house,” she seethed. “Fucking house!” she yelled now. “Felix is innocent,” she shouted to the ether. “I thought you didn’t care about the innocent?”
The bricks and mortar offered no answer.
“Chalice?”
She looked at him. “What?”
The word carried with it the tail end of the ire she’d been directing at the house. He managed not to draw back from it, realising it wasn’t so much him she was angry at as the house, and Ibex, and possibly even herself.
“What about Thomas?”
Her face creased uncomfortably. “I don’t know. Moving him right now…” She winced. “It might not be the wisest move.”
“Wise or not, it might be the only move.” She looked questionably at him. In reply he leaned in close to her, too distracted now by other things to be affected by the closeness of female flesh, the scent of her perfume. “If neither of us can open the door, and if Felix is…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, so skipped to the logical conclusion. “Then who knows how long it will be before anyone opens that door? Does Thomas have time to waste?” He’d tried to look earnest as he said the words, tried to look like he knew what he was talking about. The most surprising thing was that he knew he was right. No hesitation, no um-ing and ah-ing.
And he could see that Chalice knew he was right too.
“You know, Tyrell. You’re a loud mouthed son of a bitch, even when you’re whispering.”
They turned as one, both realised that Cheung wasn’t as far away as either of them had thought, and wasn’t as out of it either. Tyrell was relieved to find he was smiling though. It might have been a wan smile, plastered
unconvincingly on an unhealthily pale face, but it was a positive sign nonetheless.
“Sorry, Tom,” said Chalice returning to his side.
Without being bidden Tyrell took up position on the opposite side. “I’m sorry too,” he said softly. “For everything.”
Cheung shrugged. The tiny act made him grimace, but he fought to maintain the smile. “Can’t rightly blame you for something you don’t remember doing.”
“I think you’ll find the house disagrees.”
“What does a house know?”’ He reached out with a hand and clasped Tyrell’s right arm. His grip was loose, like a new born child.
“Tom,” said Chalice.
He turned her way. “Yes?” his hand fell limply away from Tyrell’s arm.
“I know it’s difficult, but we need to know, who you spoke to on the phone earlier. Need to know if you’re…” she licked her lips. “As guilty as we are.”
“As guilty as the house thinks you are,” he corrected.
She smiled. “Whatever you say, Agent Cheung.”
“Finally some respect. I didn’t speak to anyone, well no one I knew. The phone was answered by someone at the Northern General hospital in Sheffield.” He paused. “The A &E department.”
Chalice was frowning. “Why would it divert your call there?”
“Alex…Alex died there. Sorry, back up. Alex was my brother, my older brother.”
Chalice was nodding. Tyrell figured this sort of information would have been part of Cheung’s file, but from the curious look in her eyes it seemed the file hadn’t told the whole story.
“I remember you telling me about your brother. Car accident, right?”
“Yeah, but we were never sure, that it was an accident I mean.”
Chalice cocked her head to one side. “Suicide,” she asked. There was no hesitation, she didn’t have to steel herself to say the word. Time was too important.
“Maybe, like I said we never knew. Alex…” were the tears in Cheung’s eyes born of physical or emotional pain, Tyrell wondered? “Alex was five years older than me, but mum always said you’d never know it sometimes. I was always the earnest one, the sensible one.”
Chalice smiled. “You do surprise me.”
Cheung grinned back. “Alex though, he was always getting into trouble. Not bad trouble, but he’d be the one who broke an ornament, or who skipped school. Hard to admit, but he wasn’t anywhere near as bright as me. Good with his hands though, with machines. He was a car mechanic. We all thought he was happy, content with life, but guess not.
“He started gambling when I was at my first year at Sheffield University. I dunno…” a shrug. “Maybe it bothered him, me going off to university and him left doing MOTs. Whatever the reason, things spiralled out of control. He wasn’t a very good gambler you see. Didn’t do bad on the horses, but he preferred roulette and he was lousy at it.” A sad smile. “Got into financial trouble so…so quickly. Thirty grand, if you can believe that. That’s how much he owed. Anyway, he started drinking and one day he drove after downing a bottle and a half of vodka. Ran his Astra through the central reservation on the M1 and hit an artic head on.
“The lorry driver died immediately, but somehow Alex hung on, for a few hours at least.”
“Long enough to get to hospital?” said Chalice.
Cheung nodded. “We were all with him, but he never regained consciousness so we never knew, if it was just stupidity or something planned.”
Chalice had adopted a caring little smile, cocked her head to one side to soften her appearance further. “Not exactly your fault though.”
“I guess I know that, deep down inside, but this house must have picked up…” another cough. “Sorry. Must have picked up on my guilt anyway. I should have done something.” Those earnest little eyes, so serious, thought Tyrell, and he realised the disservice he’d done Cheung earlier, making assumptions about his heritage, about him being a gambler. Those dice cufflinks weren’t a flashy declaration of a bad habit, they were a constant reminder—as if this guy would even need that—not to lose control, and of his big brother.
Cheung felt guilty because he thought he should have done something, assuming responsibility. Tyrell wondered if he’d ever been that much of a straight arrow.
“I think your options were limited, Tom.” Chalice took a deep breath. “And so are ours. John’s right, if we don’t get through that door, then fuck knows when someone will open it, and even if this wound isn’t life threatening, given enough time it will be if infection sets in.”
Cheung was nodding. “I understand.”
Chalice’s expression was pained. “I don’t know if you do. We’re going to have to lift you up, walk you over to the door.” Her left eye twitched. “Tom, it’s gonna hurt like hell. Worse, it might open up the wound, start you bleeding.”
Cheung limply lifted a hand and wiped tears from his eyes. They were all too quickly replaced by more. “I don’t want to die,” he said softly. He moved his arm so that the dice cufflink there was visible. “But I have to roll the dice, have to gamble this time.”
“Just don’t make a habit of it.”
Cheung looked at him. “Whatever you say, old man.” The words held warmth.
“No time like the present,” said Chalice, and before Cheung could change his mind she took hold under one arm, gestured for Tyrell to do likewise. “Ok, nice and slow, nice and gentle. On three. One…two…three.”
They lifted him slowly, which may or may not have been the best thing to do. It minimised the chance of damage, but by the way Cheung bit his lip it elongated his pain like a plaster being eased off with agonizing slowness.
But finally they had him nominally on his feet, even if they were supporting him. Cheung whimpered, but clearly the pain had eased.
Tyrell knew respite was temporary.
“Ok now, Tom. Baby steps over to the door. I know slow hurts, but we do this too quickly, it’ll hurt a lot more.”
“I know.” He snapped between gritted teeth.
“Ok here we go.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ…” They tried to move as one, but absolute precision was impossible, and so the knife clearly wobbled in his chest. “Oh…oh fucking God, no…shit no!” With each step he made a sound. Sometimes it was an expletive, or a plea to god. Finally he just whimpered, as if he didn’t even have the strength to waste on mere words anymore.
But eventually they paused again. “Oh fucking shit.” There was relief in the words this time at least.
They were stood in front of the door now. Tyrell knew they’d have to move sideways to get Cheung close enough to use the door handle. He was worried though. Opening the door wouldn’t be enough. They had to get him across the hall, out of the front door and into one of the vehicles. Just getting him to the door had been a struggle, God knew how much more pain he’d have to endure on an even longer journey.
Worse, selfishly, Tyrell wasn’t sure how much longer he could help lift him. His muscles had atrophied a lot during his hospitalisation, and even with regular physio he was still a weakling, likely always would be.
Please let me be strong enough to hold him, just for a few minutes more, please. He wasn’t sure who the silent prayer was directed at. He’d never been one to believe in God. Maybe he was asking the house; maybe he was just begging himself.
“Ok, we’re going to take a step to the side,” said Chalice. “Then you’ll take the handle and…”
The door handle turned.
Tyrell would have frozen then, would have just stood there immobile as Lott’s wife, had Chalice not reacted. “I’ve got him, you take them!” Even as she barked the order she was clasping Cheung into a closer embrace, taking more of the strain.
Tyrell did as he was ordered, he let go. Then he reached for his gun and dropped to his knees even as the door opened. She’d made a mistake his brain realised, when his own neurons finally caught up. She was stronger, so she could take the strain, but she was also more dangero
us to whoever was on the other side of that door. Tyrell on the other hand might not be sure enough, and that might cost all of them.
The world slowed, seconds rolled by like minutes. The door swung inwards with a slowness that Tyrell thought should have been accompanied by an agonized squeal of rusty metal, but there was no soundtrack beyond the painful cries of Thomas Cheung. Despite the slowness however, it seemed there still hadn’t been enough time for John Tyrell. The door was almost fully open before his tired, crippled brain realised he still had the safety on. By the time his thumb moved to correct this error it was too late. The door was open and the person on the other side had him cold.
He almost stopped his thumb in its tracks when he realised it was Felix Carmichael standing there, but he overrode the instinct, flicked the safety off. Ibex might be waiting, just out of sight…Tyrell needed to be ready.
“It’s ok,” yelped Felix as he saw the gun levelled at him, palms outstretched as if they had the remotest chance of stopping a bullet. “The other guy, the American, he’s gone.”
Tyrell narrowed his gaze, tried to see past the boy. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, no odd shadows, no movement. “Get inside and shut the door.”
Felix didn’t need to be told twice, he bolted inside, slamming the door behind him. For a moment Tyrell thought he was hearing things, because there was another slam that followed a heartbeat after the first. It was the sudden absence of the voice overhead that made him realise it was the front door slamming. Ibex was on his way.
But maybe he wasn’t? Felix was now standing with his back to the closed door, a look of relief on his face. Tyrell had to spoil the illusion of safety. “Get away from the door, Felix, a bullet would go right through it.” He stood up now, moved back over to where Chalice was cradling Cheung in her arms. He was lying down, his head in her lap, and it seemed like pain was permanently etched onto his face like agony carved into rock.