Cold Skies: A Psychological Thriller

by Zoe Drake

  “This wing is mainly for student accommodation,” she said, using the control box on the armrest to bring the wheelchair to a rest at a window on the second floor. “Over there, you can see the Master’s Lodge, the reading room, and the library. We aim to make all of the college buildings barrier-free by the start of the new millennium.”

  “What’s that tower, over the other side of this block?” asked Gareth, leaning out of the open window.

  “Oh, that’s the Lantern. We won’t be going there today, I’m afraid. It’s not used any more.”

  “I see. And through that door…” Gareth turned to peer through a glass square in the door to the darkened corridor beyond. “Ah, that must be the canteen.”

  “Excuse me?” Ms. Harris looked as shocked as if she had been slapped in the face. “That’s Hall.”

  “Sorry. I meant the, er, dining hall.”

  “It’s Hall, Mr. Manning. We dine in Hall.” She turned away dismissively and pointed upwards. “Anyway, this is as far as I can show you. The entrance to the roof is up a few more stairs, and then through a trapdoor. The porters will help you up.”

  Back in the Lodge, Gareth had to suppress a smile at the Porter’s face when he lifted one of the flight cases – “Why, it’s not that heavy at all!” – and together, they trudged up the four flights of stone steps, squeezing past a few vacant-looking students on the way up. With dismay, Gareth realized that the trapdoor was reached by a set of rungs in the stone, but he and the porter managed to get the cases up by passing them to each other, and then the rest of the way was via a narrow spiral staircase.

  At last, the porter unlocked a small wooden door, and led Gareth out onto the roof. They were both buffeted by a brisk cross-wind, and the first thing Gareth saw were the massive buttresses that separated one side of the roof from another. They stood upon a large, completely flat section of roof, an oblong of about ten meters by fifteen. To Gareth’s left huddled a small arrangement of canvas and scaffolding, and another section of the roof that branched over the east wing of the building. To Gareth’s right was the view of the centre of Cambridge, and the railing-less drop that sloped sharply down over the skylights of the attic rooms to the guttering.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” said the porter, setting the case down gently. Gareth thought of the fiver in his pocket. He knew the Cambridge porters didn’t take tips, but still… but it was too late, the man was already was on the steps heading down.

  Gareth turned and walked closer to the edge, shading his eyes against the fierce sunlight. In front of him lay St. Michael’s Church and to his right, the tower of Great St. Mary’s. Facing that was King’s College Chapel with ‘that bloody tree’ obscuring the gateway from the street. Swinging back to his left, he saw the majestic bulk of Sidney Sussex College, the focus of his assignment. “Take a panoramic shot from the roof of Gonville & Caius,” Lynval had asked him, “and put Sydney Sussex right in the middle. It’s for the cover of their next conference prospectus.”

  He began to assemble the camera, holding the polythene bags down with lenses so the wind wouldn’t send them skittering over the edge of the roof. He chose a 600mm lens and carefully fixed it to the front of the camera’s thick, bulky body, and then gingerly fastened the whole thing to the erect tripod. I need a TV camera dolly to really move this bugger around, he thought ruefully.

  The focusing was the tricky part. He squinted through the loupe fastened to the ground glass screen, at the same time holding a cape around him to cut out the sunlight. The thick vinyl of the cape flapped around his body, threatening several times to whip across his face.

  He’d checked and re-checked through the loupe a ridiculous number of times before he decided the focus was good enough. Securing the cape under one of the cases, he inserted the film plate, rechecked the focus, and took the first exposure.

  First one down. The wind blew a long, mournful whistle across the roof.

  As he eased the second film plate into the squat dark box, Gareth noticed how serene the city seemed to be. There was no sound of any traffic. A peaceful, almost idyllic spring morning. A cityscape with the harmony and stillness of… well, of a photograph.

  With an intake of breath, he drew back his fingers from the loupe.

  What the hell was that?

  A spark?

  He flexed his fingers quickly several times, to try to get rid of the tingling. Static electricity.

  The tingling crept onto his skin, and he felt something similar in his gums. He sucked in air, and then swallowed with some effort, to work some saliva back into his suddenly dry throat.

  Back to the focus, he thought. Through the loupe, Cambridge immediately adopted a postcard-like flatness. The buildings looked like they were pasted flat against the sky. If giants walked past, not looking where they were going, the whole skyline could tear and collapse at the brush of a careless hand.

  Gareth stood away from the camera and rubbed his eyes with both hands.

  Wait a minute. There’s something wrong. The traffic… surely, I’d be able to hear the traffic from here. There’s nowhere in Cambridge where you can’t hear the sound of the roads. And the people, the shoppers, the tourists. I should be able to hear the voices. The sounds of their shoes on the Trinity Street cobblestone sidewalk.

  But he heard nothing. A complete absence of sound…

  He shook his head to clear it, and looked out once more across the city. The tingling spread through his body, whispering across the hairs on his skin and tickling a cold sweat from his brow and armpits. Even the light had changed; there was a thickening, a darkening of the air on the roof around him, and a slow grinding buzz built up inside his head.

  “Oh no,” he muttered shakily. “Not again… not here…”

  His head seemed to turn of its own accord. Twisting around like the camera on its tripod, his body followed it as he turned to face the door where he’d left the staircase and walked out onto the roof.

  There were three of them.

  He recognized them instantly; the strangers with the Triumph Herald who had stood outside his house.

  They wore the same shiny black suits, the same homburg hats crammed onto their heads. One stood further back, as if guarding the door. The other two stood flanking Gareth, their hands loose by their sides, their clothes undisturbed by the wind. Their faces were thin, white, with no locks of hair showing beneath or around their hats, no eyebrows, no eyelashes. Their skin was far too pale; it glistened with a plastic sheen, and made Gareth think of hospital burns wards and skin grafts.

  “Who are you?” Gareth asked, his voice hoarse and dry.

  “You know who we are, Mr. Manning.” The stranger on the right grinned, pink tongue flashing behind yellowed teeth. “You have been talking about things that should remain secret. You have been disturbing others with your ridiculous allegations.”

  “You’re not real,” Gareth said slowly. His fists were clenched so hard his nails dug into his flesh. “You’re only in my head.”

  “Let’s not bother with the technicalities.” The Man In Black who had spoken raised his hand in a curt, dismissive gesture. “Move back a little, Mr. Manning.”

  Behind him, Gareth felt the vacuum pull of the drop to the street below. “There’s nowhere to move back to,” he said.

  The Man In Black grinned once more, staring at Gareth with eyes like cigarette burns in dead white flesh. “Now you are beginning to understand,” he said quietly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Thursday, April 18th

  The atmosphere on the roof grew thicker until Gareth felt he was choking on it. Although the Men In Black didn’t move, Gareth felt something like a hand press against his face and tilt his head backwards. He raised his arms in defense, but they struck against a flat, unyielding, invisible surface, like a smooth pane of incredibly clear glass. He pressed harder but felt nothing except a tingling in his palms; it wasn’t glass, it wasn’t plastic, it wa
s as if the air itself had solidified in front of him…

  The barrier kept pushing forward, and Gareth pushed back with spread palms flattened against the air. He tried to dig in with his heels, to lever himself against the advancing wall, swaying on the edge of the roof like a suicidal mime artist.

  From behind the barrier came an ambient whisper, entirely devoid of emotion.

  “We will not tolerate you remaining here.”

  Gareth glanced behind him and whispered a curse. He closed his eyes. The wall pushed further, trying to overbalance him, to send him tumbling headfirst down to the flagstones below.

  There was only thing he could do if he wanted to stay alive… but the idea turned his blood to ice water and made his legs tremble uncontrollably…

  until he took one foot off the ledge, balancing, and then jumped.

  He hit the slanted roof side on, slid downwards, struck the skylight and stopped himself by throwing his left arm over the casing.

  It hurt.

  In the second it had taken for him to fall, he’d scraped most of the skin off his palms and knuckles, and smashed his cheek and knees against the tiles. It felt like he’d cracked several teeth, but he was still above the drop to the street.

  He gripped the window frame with his right hand, his breathing hoarse and ragged. Earthquake tremors shook the muscle and sinew of his arms and legs.

  Now what?

  Lifting his bruised face from the tiles, he saw a figure above him silhouetted against the brooding sky. The leader of the Men In Black, stepping with exaggerated care to the edge of the roof. The figure looked down, and Gareth was shot through with the disinterested strangeness of those eyes. Wide, off-white eyes, remorselessly tracking Gareth’s descent.

  The Man In Black slowly crouched down, carefully pulling up the folds in his trousers, and called softly; “Mr. Manning… Mr. Manning… I’ve got something important to tell you…”

  Then he stood up straight, one arm outstretched with a finger pointing across Cambridge. “I can see your house from here!” he declared.

  The laughter of the Men In Black was even worse than their threats. They laughed like crows, as the other two came to stand beside their leader, to roost above the guttering.

  “Let go, Mr. Manning.” The leader’s voice drifted down to Gareth, now soft and toneless, like before. “It will be over very quickly. The pain will be unbelievable, but very brief. Believe me, it will come as a blessing.”

  “Go to hell,” Gareth snarled through bleeding lips, pressing his brow against the tiles.

  When the voice returned, it had a new edge to it. “It seems you need a little more persuasion.”

  Something hit the sloped roof with an explosion of noise, and Gareth flicked his head up, only to instantly bring it down again in self-protection. The corrugated black box of the Ultra-pan camera smashed into the spine of the skylight’s coping, the legs of the tripod tilting in the air away from Gareth, down the other side. He heard the camera scrape and rattle down the roof until it came to the edge.

  Then a sickening silence that dragged on forever…

  Finally, the impact, a brittle shattering of glass and plastic, and a scream, thin, high and piercing. The first sign that someone else was involved. Gareth wasn’t trapped inside a bubble of illusions somewhere. He was still in Cambridge.

  If that had hit someone, what damage had it done?

  “You bastards,” hissed Gareth. He lifted his head to face them and tightened his grip on the rusted metal. “I’ll get you back for this! Do you hear me!” he bellowed. “When I get back up there, I’ll kick you off this roof and watch you fly. You’re gonna follow that camera, you bastards! You cold bastards!”

  He coughed, spitting blood onto the brickwork. The bellowing had cost him a lot of energy. He shifted his weight onto his right arm, and grabbed the coping with his left hand. He moved himself round toward the window. He let go with his right hand, made a fist, and swung it to pound against the glass. The only effect was more pain shooting and stabbing through his knuckles.

  The ambient voice returned, sweeping around him as the wind whirled around his head.

  “You refuse to see it.” This time, there was a note of something almost like sympathy in the voice. “Don’t you understand? We are trying to help you.”

  Despite himself, Gareth looked up. The Men In Black had not moved, and their leader was now holding out one arm, in a gesture that didn’t look threatening.

  “Mr. Manning, the truth is… you are already dead. You died in the car crash.”

  Gareth moaned, and gripped the window casing tighter, the metal cutting into his hands. “What did you say?” he yelled.

  “You are already dead. Everything that has happened to you since the crash is only an illusion. A prison you made for your own soul, Mr. Manning. You can’t find peace, because you’re clinging too hard to your former life.”

  “You’re off your head,” Gareth said weakly, his fingers clutching the metal tighter. It hurt, but the pain was good, he told himself. The pain meant the Man In Black was lying, and he was still alive.

  Although the figure was several meters above him, it sounded like he was whispering into Gareth’s ear.

  “Think about it. What happens to the souls who depart the world of the living? They return to the Source, Mr. Manning, they return to the Eternal. But there are some who get stuck. They become trapped in a world made up of their memories and desires… a world that appears real, offers security, but has no possibility of spiritual progress. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m not dead,” Gareth shouted back. He meant it defiantly, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the cold stare of the creature above him.

  “But consider all the things that have happened to you since the accident. They happened for a reason, and they were trying to tell you something. First, you tried to deny them. Then when that didn’t work, you interpreted them in terms of the last experience you had before you died… the Skywatch. Everything was explained in terms of UFOs, aliens, and abductions. I’m sorry, but the truth cannot be disguised forever, no matter how clever you try to be.”

  Gareth hugged the side of the skylight, trying to breath evenly, trying to ignore the pain in his fingers and his arms. He heard the sound of voices far below… a crowd was gathering. Could they see him? If they could, then he was real. The camera had been real; he heard it hit the pavement.

  He was real enough to make a far bigger mess when he hit the cobblestones of Trinity Street.

  Headfirst… maybe I won’t feel anything… I’ll scream as I fall, so they can rush out of the way below…

  He gasped in pain and looked up at the three pairs of eyes studying him like an insect in a bottle. “Who are you?” he yelled.

  The leader almost laughed again. Almost. “We are the Men In Black. The folk devils of the UFO community. But you see, that’s only the way you chose to interpret us. You forced this appearance upon us. Really, we are only here to help. If you stop struggling, and let go… then we can take you to the place where you’re supposed to be.”

  “You’re a bunch of liars!” They’re trying to talk me off the edge, Gareth thought. They can’t reach me down here, so they’re trying to get me to kill myself.

  “I’m not giving up.” He levered himself up, his cheeks and lips numb. He formed a fist, swung his arm back, and battered the window again. He kept pounding for a few seconds and then stopped, gasping for breath, his arms and legs shaking with fatigue and vertigo. The glass won’t break, he thought. It must be reinforced. I can’t break it.

  But I can’t stay here…

  The craziest idea struck him.

  He could ask the Men In Black to pull him up. “All right, you win,” he could say. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll never mention UFOs again. You’ve made your point. Now pull me up, okay?”

  Pathetic. Stupid. Cowardly. He didn’t care. I’m alive and I want to get off
this roof alive…

  He blinked several times, to clear the sweat out of his eyes, before realizing it wasn’t sweat that was making his vision swim. The Men In Black were trembling, like in a heat-haze, and the sky behind them had taken on the dark bruised color of a storm cloud.

  “What…”

  The buzzing returned. It was around him, then inside him, penetrating his ears, his skull, under his skin. “What are you doing?” he screamed. Looking up was like looking though the wrong end of a telescope, the Men In Black were now standing in a tunnel, getting further and further away.

  Am I falling?

  He felt the metal cutting further into his blood-slick fingers. He tasted more blood on his swollen lips. The roof is real. Hold on to the roof…

  “Give me your hand!”

  The voice was so loud it was absurd. The sky itself had spoken, stepping down and getting involved in a fight that was suddenly worthy of its attention. All the hairs on Gareth’s skin prickled and stung.

  Shadows fell across him like a cloak. Strong hands gripped his waist and left arm like clamps. “Hold on to me,” came the voice again.

  Yes. I’ll hold on to you. The angels have come to get me.

  “Let go of the roof,” the voice commanded. Gareth shook his head, like a child. “It’s all right,” the voice said, almost deafening him. “We’ve got you. You can let go of the roof now.”

  Gareth hung where he was, his arms in the rigor mortis of fear. Even if he wanted to let go, he couldn’t, his muscles had locked and he was frozen to the skylight…

  But then he was suddenly tugged away from his perch, and tilted backwards into the air. His body sagged into the straps that had somehow been attached to his waist. He couldn’t help but glance down. He saw his legs and feet, kicking in emptiness, with shadows dancing in the sunshine across Trinity Street so far below.

  He turned his head, and found a face looking back at his. A face right next to him, marked with stubble and patches of dry skin. Brown eyes that stared into his, and a mouth that kept giving instructions, telling him to be calm, to be still. The face was framed by a helmet, and belonged to a body, clothed within a uniform. Gareth felt something pushing itself against his feet, then his hands. He recognized it as a ladder.