Mersey Dark

by Michael Whitehead

  “Timothy, what’s happening?” she asked, her voice vanishing as it tried to fill the empty hallway. The only reply was a thundering silence. The house was suddenly filled with a sucking, soporific sense of evil that drugged her senses and suffocated her.

  Her hand found the banister before she knew she intended to go upstairs. A sense of dread and impending doom had gripped her, making her back ache and her knees weak. Each step felt like another on the road to her death. The house reeked of danger but she still found herself climbing after Timothy.

  There was a sound from above her, seemingly coming out of the same room from which she had heard the commotion when downstairs. It was a scuffling, shuffling sound and she tried once more to call Timothy’s name. This time she managed to find her voice but only at a whisper.

  “Timothy, are you there?” Her voice was hoarse with tension and no answer came to her from the landing above.

  She took another couple of steps with her eyes fixed on the top of the stairs. Again she could hear the scuffling noise from above her. Now she understood that she had heard a sound like that before. Her father had owned dogs when she was younger, huge shaggy Irish wolfhounds. They had made the same noise when their faces were buried deep in their food bowls. It was a hungry, eager eating noise that terrified her.

  Somehow she managed to force her feet further up the stairs. She knew in her heart that she should be turning on her heels and running from the house. Timothy was dead, Wilson was dead, something had killed them both and was waiting upstairs to tear her apart.

  A laugh escaped her, unbidden in the low lamp light. What was she thinking, there was nothing waiting to eat her upstairs. She had read one too many penny dreadfuls and now her imagination was getting the better of her.

  She swore to herself that if Timothy were playing some kind of trick on her she would never speak to him again. Worse still, if he thought this was a good way to get her excited about spending the night with him then he was in for a rude awakening.

  The noise came again as she crept closer to the landing at the top of the stairs. A picture of her mother and father looked at her from an occasional table as she reached the top step. Her mother looking stern but beautiful and her father looking proud, as he always had done when in her company.

  She had never been the easiest woman to live with. She had been house proud to the point where she would follow her father around with a damp cloth, wiping everything he touched and tutting. Still he had loved her with all his heart, smiling at her every time she had entered a room, as if he hadn’t seen her in a month.

  Now she sent a silent prayer to both of them to keep her safe. If they were looking down on her right now, she hoped they could protect her.

  The room above the parlour was at the end of the landing. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar but she could see no movement from inside. She stood and stared at the gap but all she could see was the darkness beyond.

  The eating noise started again, so close now that she was at the top of the stairs. The nerve finally failed her and she tried to turn to run but as she did the door swung inward and her mind became blank with fear.

  Just inside the door lay a pair of legs with their feet pointing toward the door. She couldn’t see who they belonged to but felt sure that they were Timothy’s. Her throat constricted and her mouth dried so that she could neither speak nor swallow. In the lightless room a darker shape was moving over the figure on the floor, dipping toward the body and making the eating, grunting noise once more.

  Elizabeth finally found her voice, she screamed into the silent house, tearing a rent in her sanity with the violence of the sound. Her legs betrayed her but in her mind she was running from the house, fleeing into the street shouting for help. In reality she stared in horror and fascination as the figure lifted its head and looked at her.

  For a moment she saw it stare at her, a black silhouette against the dark room, lit only by the weak lamp on the landing. Then it began to move toward her, captivating her with its hideous form.

  Two tiny eyes bore into her from a face that was stretched and elongated. Two long teeth protruded from the front of its mouth, like a pair of discoloured razor blades. Course hair grew down either side of its nose and shrouded its face. A single shred of flesh hung limply from one corner of its blood ringed mouth.

  It came toward her, hunched over and scuttling. Half way across the landing it stopped and looked around, sniffing the air. Elizabeth tried in vain to turn and run but her body may as well have belonged to someone else. All she could do was stare in horror and misery as the grotesque creature advanced on her.

  It stopped, a breath away from her and stretched its neck toward her face. Her heart beat in her chest so hard that she was sure it would stop, she prayed that it would. Death would be preferable to this hell-sent spawn.

  Its breath smelled of putrefying flesh. It sniffed at her, then opened its mouth and seemed to taste the air with its tongue. She saw a row of pin shaped teeth leading back from the bladed front pair. It’s tongue was black and somehow that was worst of all.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and prayed to her father to help her but he couldn’t. Not even god could protect her from such a creature as this. She felt it step back from her and for a moment hope crept in and tried to find a home in her heart.

  She opened her eyes in time to see the monster lean back on its deformed back legs and leap at her. She tried to scream as the teeth tore into her throat but all she produced was a spray of blood that marked her final breath.

  Elizabeth died staring up at the photo of her mother and father. They looked down on her as she choked and gasped, trying to breathe through her ruined throat, a single droplet of her blood running down the glass.

  Chapter Three

  Nelson Tanner turned away from the window and the first harsh light of day, pulling his single rough blanket over his head. Sleep had come late and the morning held nothing more inviting than a hangover. He had wandered the docks for a while after dealing with the Flynn brothers. The dockers and sailors were busy late into the night and he had stood watching them until thirst had got the better of him. After that he had made his way back to the scene of the crime and fallen deep into a bottle of whiskey in the Turners Vaults.

  Molly Langdon had found him while he was still only half way to oblivion and the two of them had finished the bottle between them. She was a red haired beauty who, for reasons he could never understand, had always been attracted to Tanner.

  Midnight had found them singing their way toward his one bedroom flat that sat above a shop on Duke Street. They had almost fallen through the door, laughing loud enough to wake the dead and that was the last he could remember. Now he lay, waiting for the pounding in his head to subside before he could open his eyes and see if the delightful Miss Langdon was still lying next to him.

  He took a couple of deep breaths and opened his eyes, squinting at the light that made its way through the dirt caked windows of the flat. Dust motes danced in the air above him and the water mark on the ceiling curled into its familiar question mark as his eyes began to focus.

  Next to him Molly snuffled, scratched her nose and then began to snore like a purring cat. Tanner laughed softly to himself as he wrenched himself off the bed, crossed the bare wood floor and stepped into the small space that held the chamber pot. The sound of his bladder’s relief seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet flat, amplified by the tenderness in his head.

  The clock on the welsh dresser across the room said it was eight o’clock but he tapped it a couple of times and decided he might not have wound it for a few days. It was his day off, but he would make the short walk down to Argyle Street to make sure the officers from last night had processed the Flynn brothers properly. It was rare but he had known a copper to take a bribe and lose a prisoner on the way to the lock-up before today. Jones had looked like a good man, but you never knew.

  He moved to the small window, rubbing at the dirt to clear a patch, a
nd realising the worst of the grime was on the outside. The day looked clear and bright after the rain of yesterday, and the blue sky was patched with tall white clouds.

  Tanner looked about for his clothes. His trousers were in a ball, just inside the door. He picked them up and noted that they still felt damp from their soaking yesterday. He moved to the small wardrobe on the other side of the bed and opened it. A single shirt and two pairs of rough trousers hung like the last fish at the market. He took one of each and dressed in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door.

  He was tall at six feet. When he had been a uniformed officer he had gotten used to having his trousers altered to make them longer. His shirts, likewise, had to be roomy around the shoulders to match his broad back. His dark hair was a little longer than the uniformed men were allowed to wear it but detectives had a much freer hand with such things. He used his fingers as a comb and brushed the worst of it out of his eyes. All in all, he thought he looked like ten pounds of shit in a nine pound bag, but he’d looked worse.

  On the bed Molly rolled over and exposed one of her magnificent breasts, she then spoiled the image by grunting a snore and wafting a hand across her face as if swatting a fly, then settling back to sleep again.

  There was a scratching sound at the door and Tanner opened it, turning back to the room in order to find his boots without looking who was there. A scruffy, long haired mongrel padded into the flat, looking exactly as worn out and dishevelled as Tanner. He made his way to the bowl in the corner and seeing it empty dropped into the basket next to it. He looked up at Tanner with a world weary expression.

  “You too, Roland?” Tanner asked. “Well I hope she was worth it.” As he spoke he reached into the cabinet beneath the basin that passed as a kitchen. He pulled out a stale slice of bread and dropped it into the bowl beside Roland. The dog looked at the food for a moment then closed his eyes and dropped to sleep.

  Tanner glanced around the room for a scrap of paper on which to write Molly a note. There was none, he considered using a page from his notebook but he realised he wasn’t sure she could read. He found his boots and slipped them on before donning his overcoat and leaving the flat.

  The steps were on the outside of the building and Tanner hoped he could make his way past the front of the dress shop below his flat without being seen. Mrs. Wilson, as well as producing very fine dresses would also have made a fine detective. Rare was the time when she missed anything that happened on the street and she certainly would not miss a large and badly groomed tenant sneaking past her window. Today however, she was busy with an early customer and Tanner took the chance to escape.

  Carts carrying goods passed him as he made his way to the bridewell on Argyle Street, carrying life into the city as its residents woke up to another day. The people of Liverpool complained about the noise of metal-rimmed wheels and about the mess the horses left on the streets. They didn’t seem to understand that everything they used, every day, was delivered on the back of those carts.

  Shopkeepers were pulling out awnings and setting up tables outside their windows. Fruit and veg fought for space with hanging fowl and other goods. Tanner stepped back as a young boy raced out of a alleyway next to a grocers, on a tricycle, loaded with paper-wrapped packages. Then his feet found their familiar rhythm as he made his way up Argyle Street and came to the station.

  Tanner rang the bell on the outside of the heavy door on the corner of the walled courtyard and waited. Before long the door was opened and he made his way into the heart of the bridewell.

  The constable on the front desk looked up briefly but said nothing as Tanner entered. His eyes dropped back down to the racing section of the paper. Pinned to the wall behind the desk, a number of wanted posters showed the various lowlifes of Liverpool. Each poster had a hand-drawn likeness of the criminal in question. Tanner knew at least four of them and none of the pictures looked much like the men who were named.

  One of the station wags had drawn a line from the mouth of the picture on Mickey Flynn’s poster. The quote they had attached to Mickey’s mouth read, “I’m in cell three.” Tanner smiled to himself and wandered toward the cell block.

  All but two of the cells were currently occupied. Tanner took the time to glance into each in turn. The last one before he reached Mickey Flynn held a young boy of no more than ten or eleven years. Tanner knew Billy Gerrard from the streets around the docks. He was always stealing food from shops or picking the odd pocket. It was the latter that normally got him caught.

  So far, the officers at Argyle Street had managed to keep him from going in front of the judge. They all knew he had at least three brothers and two sisters, the youngest of whom was just out of nappies. They also knew that their father had been killed in one of the ship yards on the Mersey, and their mother was usually to be found at the bottom of a bottle or on her back earning pennies that never bought food for the kids.

  If he ever did find his way into court he could expect no such leniency from a judge. It wouldn’t be long before he was in prison, or worse the gallows. Usually he was held in a cell overnight and escorted home by a uniformed officer. Once or twice the boys had even had a whip round in order to drop few pennies in his hand. On those occasions it normally took a week or two longer before the boy was back in a cell.

  Billy looked asleep as Tanner looked into the cell but he opened a single eye to see who was paying him a visit.

  “Morning Mr. Tanner,” he said, rubbing one eye with a grubby hand.

  “Morning Billy. I’m sorry to see you here, lad,” Tanner replied, trying to look stern.

  “I’m sorry to be here,” Billy said with a half-smile on his lips. “Our Lily in’t well, I was trying to get enough together to have the doctor to come round.”

  “What’s up with her?” Tanner asked, leaning closer to the hatch in the door.

  “Coughin’, Mr. Tanner. She’s been poorly for a week,” Billy said, looking down at the floor.

  “I don’t suppose your mum can help, can she?” Tanner asked. The laugh that came from the cell told him everything he needed to know.

  “I’ll have a word, see what I can do,” Tanner said and saw Billy smile before turning from the cell door.

  Mickey Flynn was asleep when Tanner looked through the sliding hatch in his cell door. Unlike with Billy, he had no qualms about waking the Irishman. He kicked the door a few times with his heavy boot, causing a renewed pounding in his own head and waking the prisoner at the same time.

  “Morning, Mickey. It’s a beautiful day outside,” Tanner said, in such a cheery voice that it even sounded false to his own ears.

  “Fuck off, copper. You’ve locked me up, the least you can do is let me sleep,” Mickey replied, his voice muffled by the arm he had placed across his face to block out the scant light in the cell.

  “I just came down, on my day off I might add, to make sure you were comfortable. To make sure you were being treated right.”

  “Like I said, do me a favour and fuck off,” Mickey said, sulkily. “Haven’t you got better things to do than chase after honest men doing a decent days work?”

  “I’m not sure you’d know a decent days work if it came up with a set of pointy teeth and bit your arse, Mickey,” Tanner said, laughing to himself.

  “You’ll learn more about biting than you ever wanted, before too long, Tanner,” Mickey said and turned to face the wall.

  “Was that a threat against a man of the law, Mickey?” Tanner asked but the Irishman remained resolutely still and silent.

  Tanner watched the man’s back for a moment, before walking away to find his desk. The last thing Mickey had said running through his mind. If it was a threat is was pretty vague and not at all to his usual standard. Normally the time honoured classics such as, “I’m going to get you,” or “You’ll pay for that,” were Mickey’s cup of tea. What had he said? “You’ll learn more about biting than you ever wanted to.” It was a ridiculous thing to say but for some reason it sent chills down
Tanner’s back.

  The station office was little more than a collection of desks with poor lighting and not much in the way of ventilation. It had a claustrophobic atmosphere that would become much worse in the heat of summer. Tanner had known men who had worked together for more than a decade turn on each other after spending a shift cooped up in here doing paperwork.

  “Nice work with the Flynn Boys,” a voice called from behind one of the desks. It was young Harry Groves. The lad was no more than eighteen years old, and was the nephew of the chief constable or something like that. Tanner really wasn’t bothered, mainly because he liked the boy. He had no time on the street, and was as green as a beer bottle,1 but he was eager and worked hard. Tanner had taken him out a few times, giving him the benefit of his experience, when it seemed fitting.

  “All in a day’s work, young Harry,” Tanner replied, trying to feign modesty.

  “They came in looking lumped up, Tanner. You must have been quite rough on the poor darlings,” a new voice joined in the conversation. Detective Constable Evans was Welsh as any man Tanner had ever met. He had wondered more than once if he might bleed coal dust.

  “I just asked them nicely to come down to the bridewell and answer a few questions, that’s all,” Tanner said with a grin.

  “If that’s asking, I’d hate to see you insist,” Evans laughed.

  Tanner weaved his way between the detritus of the office and found his seat, it creaked familiarly as he sat down and glanced around him. As always, his desk was full of bits of paper; most of which he had created himself. He had learned over the years that his memory wasn’t the greatest and so he had become a note writer. What he lacked was an organisation system, some way of filing and controlling his random thoughts and observations.

  He took up a pen from his desk and wrote what Mickey Flynn had just said to him. Then, looking around for somewhere to put it, dropping it onto a pile of paperwork on the corner of the desk.