Murmuration

by Robert Lock

  “I bet you’re dead,” he whispered, his voice reverberating round the inside of the booth, “and I bet you never saw it coming. Well, Madame Kaminska,” the comedian scoffed as a wave of tiredness washed over him and he settled his head into the soft padding of his rucksack, “wait ‘til you see what’s coming next.”

  Sammy started, woken by the sound of a siren on the promenade. For a moment he felt completely disorientated, baffled by the booth’s unfamiliar gloom, but then he remembered why he was there; tonight at last the booth would fulfill its function as destiny’s alembic.

  He angled his watch to catch the pale light seeping in through a split in the boarding near his knee and noted with satisfaction that it was almost half-past two in the morning, the perfect time to execute his plan. Most of the clubs would have emptied by now, meaning there was less chance of anyone spotting the fire until it was already too well-established to be put out, yet still leaving him long enough to slip away into the night and be safely tucked up at home in time to blearily answer the phone and express his dismay at the news.

  The pier was little more than a silhouette against the dark grey slabs of sea and sky. Sammy Samuels padded back down its silent old boards towards the rectangular mass of the theatre. He could hear the petrol sloshing around in the container slung over his shoulder, as though it too was excited at the prospect of such a profound ignition. As he walked he silently sang ‘hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go,’ energised by a feeling of impending release which came close to rapture.

  Once shielded behind the theatre he switched on a small torch, sorted through the keys, unlocked the storeroom and swung open its door. Sammy’s heart was beating faster now, his whole body quivering with excitement; this was how he used to feel before going on stage, so wonderfully alive, anticipating the laughter and applause he was about to create. And like then, he had to force himself to calm down, slow his breathing and clear his mind.

  “Concentrate, Rosenberg,” he reminded himself, “you’ve got work to do.”

  The storeroom was unchanged, with its geometrically perfect stacks of deckchairs creating a chest-high maze through which Sammy navigated, his path illuminated by the torch beam, until he reached the shelves loaded with paint tins and plastic bottles of turpentine. He wriggled out of the rucksack’s straps and placed it on top of an adjacent pile of deckchairs, unfastened its drawstrings and lifted out the petrol container. It rocked gently as though encouraging the comedian, almost demonstrating to him what needed to be done. He then took out a bundle of old Hawaiian shirts; these would form the source of the fire, a choice that, notwithstanding its symbolic relevance, also possessed a degree of practicality, as Sammy reasoned that the shirts’ polyester content would make them burn strongly. He manoeuvred a stack of deckchairs so that it was positioned directly beneath the paint and turpentine, then placed the shirts on top of the deckchairs, unscrewed the lid of the petrol can and poured its contents over the shirts, sloshing a little of the petrol so that it soaked into the stripy material of the chairs. With the heart of his fire thoroughly doused, Sammy then walked slowly round the storeroom, sprinkling petrol over each pile of deckchairs until the container was empty. He threw it away, its purpose fulfilled. The air was now thick with petrol fumes that stung his eyes and caught at the back of his throat, but at least the resulting blurred vision and metallic taste gave added impetus to his actions. The comedian hurried back to the pile of shirts, feeling in his pocket for his lighter as he wended his way through the deckchairs. Flipping open its metal cap, Sammy’s thumb settled on the flint wheel, but then he hesitated. What if the petrol fumes in the storeroom ignited before he could light the fire? Had he inadvertently spilled some of the petrol on his clothes, which could seal his own fate as well as the pier’s? He saw himself thrashing about amidst the blazing deckchairs before leaping from the end of the pier and plunging in a fiery arc into the black waters.

  “Come on, don’t bottle it now.”

  His thumb twitched on the milled flint wheel, there was the briefest of metallic scrapes, and a fat yellow flame sprang into being. Sammy stared at it, mesmerised by its purity. The flame was candid and yet scrupulously neutral, offering itself for good or bad without approbation or reproach for either. It could deliver protection from predator or cold, or equally destroy its wielder. The flame was nothing more than a tool; unlike the sea, whose vast coldness sensed the flame’s heat and willed it to begin the pier’s destruction, willed it with all its might, for its patience was at an end.

  He had hoped the shirts would prove to be a good catalyst, but their dramatic combustion took even Sammy by surprise, causing him to jerk instinctively backwards to escape the ball of fire which seemed magically to appear the moment the lighter’s flame touched a sleeve poking out of the pile.

  “Shit a brick,” he cursed as the corner of a deckchair jabbed him painfully in the small of his back, but the instant success of his first attempt at pyromania soothed the pain somewhat.

  He watched as the pile of deckchairs under the blazing shirts began to smoulder and burn, then, satisfied that the fire was well-enough established to be left to its own devices, and also aware that the tins of paint and turpentine bottles would soon be either exploding or scattering burning liquid across the storeroom, he hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulder and turned towards the door, only to see it slam shut.

  For a second Sammy frowned at the door. Had a gust of wind blown it shut? Or had lighting the fire created a sort of vacuum effect inside the storeroom?

  “Who gives a shit?” he said, astounded by his own inertia. “Shift your arse!”

  Sammy ran to the door and pushed, expecting it to swing back out into the night, into his new life, but when the palm of his hand hit the wooden panel it was met with firm resistance, sending a sharp jarring pain all the way up his arm and into his shoulder.

  “What the fuck?” He pushed again, then with both hands, then with his shoulder and all his body weight. The door gave slightly, but Sammy could hear the padlock rattle in its hasp. He was locked in.

  “Hey!” he shouted, slamming into the door. “Hey! Let me out! There’s a fucking fire in here!” Silence, apart from the crackle and clamour of the flames. “Hey! I’m trapped in here! Somebody!”

  The comedian took several steps backward, then charged at the door, but the joiners, under strict instructions to construct a sturdy barrier in order that valuable items could be safely stowed away in the room, had added cross-bracing and an inner layer of plywood. The door shuddered, stood firm. He tried again, and hurt his shoulder.

  “Christ almighty,” Sammy muttered. “What the fuck’s going on? Help! Help!” He banged on the door with both fists. Smoke was beginning to fill the room. He banged on the door again, even though he knew it would do no good, that he had been deliberately locked in and that appealing to be released was probably what his captor most wanted to hear and was least likely to act on. Who had slammed shut this door? Julian. It had to be him, or more likely one of his henchmen. It was just the sort of trick he would pull; clear the pier to make way for his fairground rides, pin the arson on him and get rid of an awkward problem at the same time. And he had walked straight into the trap. But when Sammy inhaled to scream his name, if only to show that he had worked out who was behind the set-up, he breathed in a lungful of the smoke’s acrid vapour and began to cough uncontrollably, his eyes watering as his body tried to expel the toxic gases being released by his Hawaiian shirts.

  Convulsed by the needles pricking at his lungs, Sammy sank to his knees. The blurred flecks of light, cast out into the world so long ago by the lap dancing club’s twirling glitterball and which, he now realised, had been waiting, biding their time just beyond the boundaries of his vision, began once again to flash across his eyes, only now they were not white but amber, taking up the colour of the flames in joyous brotherhood, and all at once Sammy thought of Amanda’s crucifix, the gleaming silver man who nestled between her breasts, his arms outs
tretched in a gesture of complete candour. Or was it simply indifference?

  The deckchairs were alight now, the smoke and heat adding to the glitterball’s constellation. Sammy screwed shut his eyes, opened them again, blinked away tears, pulled his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and clamped it over his mouth, and then he noticed, half-hidden behind a pile of cardboard boxes at the back of the room, a door, an open door. How had he not noticed that? A part of him knew it was because the doorway had not been there before, that someone must have opened it, but even if, like a rat in a maze, he was being guided towards God alone knew what, at least it offered a respite from the heat and smoke. He ran towards it, pushed the boxes to one side and toppled through the doorway, slamming shut the door behind him. He leaned against it, panting, trembling, almost blind in the gloomy space after the flame-lit storeroom, but gradually his eyes adjusted, the white flecks fading once more, and he realised that he was beneath the stage. He could see the house lights shining through thin cracks between the boards, but why were they on? And then the boards creaked, relaying the unmistakable sound of footsteps crossing to centre-stage.

  “Hey!” Sammy yelled. “Hey! Who’s there? Who the fuck is that?”

  He ran to the side, found a crude wooden staircase and charged up into the wings. Tucked away in the shadows was the control desk for the stage lighting, above which was a small monitor displaying a black-and-white image of the stage. On the screen Sammy could make out a figure, positioned centre-stage and facing out into the auditorium. He pushed the heavy black curtains to one side and ran out into the dazzling light, ready to tackle whoever it was trying to kill him, but to his amazement the stage was empty. Sammy, propelled by his own momentum, staggered to a halt at the same spot where he had seen the figure on the screen. Baffled by their sudden disappearance, the comedian glanced down at his feet and realised he was being ridiculous. How many hundreds of times had he stood on this stage? He knew every square foot of boarding, knew very well that there was no trapdoor, and yet still he looked, because there was no other way they could possibly have disappeared so quickly. He peered out into the theatre, squinting to minimise the glare from the row of spotlights shining directly at him. He brought up one hand and held it above his eyes. Was that someone moving in the shadows at the back of the auditorium?

  Propelled into movement once more, and conscious that tendrils of smoke were beginning to seep out from vents set into the low wooden wall below the stage front, Samuels jumped down and ran up the centre aisle. A lifetime of heavy smoking was taking its toll on his breathing, but catching up with this elusive figure might mean the difference between escape and a horrific death, so Sammy ignored the stabbing pains in his chest and laboured up the slight incline, feet padding softly on the carpet, until he reached the main auditorium doors. Again, there was no one to be seen. He grabbed the door handles and pulled. They were locked. He ran across to the other doors, pulled again, already knowing what he would find.

  “Fucking hell!” he raged, shaking the doors violently. “Come on, you bastards! Open!” Sammy vented all his fear and fury on the doors, pumping with both arms, even though he could feel that the security bars had been locked on the other side, that however hard he pulled it was a hopeless waste of energy, and all the time a devastating awareness was growing that whoever had devised this lethal snare had planned it down to the smallest detail, meaning he was unlikely to find a flaw in their process before either the smoke or the flames put an end to his search.

  He shook the doors for over a minute until, arms aching and with cramp in his fingers, Sammy relinquished the door handles. In the ensuing silence he heard the sound of someone clapping. Whirling round, the comedian saw a white-haired figure sitting on the front row, staring up at the stage and applauding as though they were watching a performer take their bow. He recognised the tousled white hair instantly.

  “You!”

  Mickey Braithwaite shuffled round in his seat and waved. “Hello, Mr Samuels.”

  Sammy strode down to the front of the auditorium, keeping his eyes fixed on the deckchair attendant in case he attempted another one of his disappearing acts, marched up to him and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Gotcha. Now get us out of here before the whole fucking lot comes down.”

  “I can’t,” Mickey said simply.

  “What d’you mean, you can’t? You’re the one with the keys!”

  “I gave them to you, Mr Samuels. Don’t you remember?”

  Sammy gripped Mickey’s sleeve more tightly and leaned down towards him. “Don’t play fucking dumb with me, sunshine, it won’t wash. I left the keys in the padlock on the outside of the storeroom… the ones you must have used to lock me in, so get your fucking arse in gear and get us out of here. There’s a bloody great fire in there now, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  The deckchair attendant glanced at the smoke now pouring out of the vents. “I threw them in the sea.”

  “What?”

  “After I locked everywhere up and put the bars across I went to the ladies toilet and opened the window and threw them out. I heard them go splash.”

  “You fucking retard! How are we supposed to get out now?” Sammy glanced round the theatre, as though an explanation for such suicidal behaviour might be gleaned from its mute rows of seats, then looked back from their insensate cushions to a similar absence in Mickey’s eyes. “This isn’t… I can’t believe you’ve done that… No, no, I take that back, I can believe you did that, I just can’t figure out why you’d want to do it.”

  “It’s time,” Mickey replied, a note of profound regret in his voice. “Bella thought it was time when she saw the flames, but it wasn’t, she only saw them because of you… because you touched her—”

  “Hang on a minute.” The comedian closed his eyes, unable to face the serenity shining out of the deckchair attendant’s face, a serenity that could only mean the crazy old bastard was prepared to die. “Are you telling me that stupid bitch really did see the future? After all that bullshit she came out with?”

  Mickey shrugged. “Perhaps it was a miracle, Mr Samuels, but I don’t know why people wish for them because there’s always something different hiding inside that isn’t really what they wanted. It has to take something away as well.”

  Sammy let go of Mickey’s sleeve and stood up. “I haven’t got time to listen to your bollocks. You might not be bothered about burning to death in this bloody place but I am.” He looked round. “There must be another way out of here.”

  “I don’t think there is, Mr Samuels. I think I’ve locked them all up.”

  The smoke was getting denser, reducing visibility in the theatre and, as the walls and furthest rows of seats disappeared, it brought their dialogue into sharper focus, their converging fates illuminated by the spotlights in whose beams the smoke swirled and shifted in patterns anticipated years ago by the starlings.

  Sammy pulled the deckchair attendant from his seat, and again the lightness of him was astonishing. “Why? What have I done to you? Why have you trapped me in here?”

  “George lost everything,” Mickey said by way of explanation, “so he didn’t want to live any more, and you’re the same. It’s time.”

  “If you say ‘it’s time’ once more I’ll fucking swing for you. And who the fuck is George?”

  “Didn’t you listen to Mr Draper?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr Draper. He told you all about George, about when he strangled Hannah under the pier. It was in the olden days. Don’t you remember?”

  Sammy groaned. “Oh, Jesus, not him. What is it with the people in this town? Why are you all obsessed with something that happened a hundred years ago? So the guy strangled a tart and then strung himself up. So fucking what. Who gives a shit? It doesn’t matter. It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

  “Yes it does, Mr Samuels!” Mickey yelled, his voice shrill with a sudden vehemence, and then in one swift movement he writhed free of the comedian’s grip, pushing him backwards
with enough force to cause Sammy to tumble and bang his head on the arm of a chair. Mickey ran off towards the stage and vanished into the smoke.

  Stunned by the sudden reversal of dominance, and winded by the fall, Sammy manoeuvred himself onto his hands and knees. The side of his head was pounding, and white flashes that beat in time with the pounding flickered across his vision. What was the matter with his lungs? They appeared to have shrivelled to tiny sacs, drawing in a hopelessly inadequate cupful of air with each breath, but when he tried to inhale more deeply the smoke snagged at his throat and made him cough violently. Levering himself upright on the arm of the chair, Sammy staggered in the direction he had seen the deckchair attendant disappear. He sensed that if he was to escape the fire then catching up with Mickey offered his only hope; surely not even he was either stupid or crazy enough to want to be burnt alive.

  The smoke was slightly less thick in the narrow passageway that in one direction led to the stage door, in the other to the stairs. Sammy hesitated. Which way had Mickey gone? He could feel the heat of the fire through the concrete floor; it was making the linoleum blister and release an acrid smell that reminded him of the hot tar used by builders, which in turn prompted a memory from school when he had thrown a boy’s PE pumps into a vat of gleaming black pitch being used to reseal the gym’s flat roof… Kevin… Kevin… There was a bang upstairs. The comedian took the steps two at a time, ignoring the stabbing pains in his chest, and emerged onto the dressing room corridor just in time to see Mickey’s legs climbing the final rungs of a ladder at the far end of the corridor, a ladder Sammy had never seen before, a ladder which allowed access to some sort of loft. And the reason no one had ever mentioned it, not in all his years on the pier, was because since the end of the war the room had, to all intents and purposes, ceased to exist.