The Collection

by West, Sam

  Bill’s sudden hand movement caught her attention through the oblong window; he was performing a throat-slitting motion with his fingers. She shook her head, despite the fact she was dealing with a nut-job and a possible stalker.

  Because Bill was right about another thing as well; nut-jobs made for bloody good radio.

  “Sure you saw me, sweetheart – you and thousands of others. I loved my time at The Gothic Square. But you haven’t not been invited onto my show to talk about how hot I was when I was spinning the decks at the best club in town. You’re here to talk about your experiences. So come on, why don’t you tell us all about what you’ve seen.” She leaned in closer to the mic, whispering theatrically. “Tell me about your brush with the dark-side.”

  “Oh, it was more than a brush, sweetheart. I have a deal with the big man himself. A pact.”

  He fell silent and Esther’s finger hovered over the ‘goodbye-you-fucking-loser’ button.

  “Are you telling me you have a pact with the devil, Greg?” she asked instead.

  “Yes I am, Esther. He owns my soul. I get to do what I love, and because of Him I get to get away with it. He gets more souls, I get my pleasure. In return he takes my soul when my times comes.”

  “What, exactly, are we talking about, here? What is it that you love?”

  She asked this, despite the fact that every last fibre of her being was screaming at her to cut him the fuck off.

  “This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it? I can hear the scepticism in your voice. It’s pain that He wants; the absolute agony of the body and mind, the all-consuming suffering of the flesh. And I can give him that, Esther, I like to.”

  Oh wow, psycho alert…

  “Are we talking about murder, here, Greg? About killing in the name of the devil?”

  It almost came out as a whisper and to her dismay she discovered that her hands were shaking. She was used to crazies calling up the show, but talking to this guy felt different. It felt wrong on a basic, human level that she couldn’t put into words. He chuckled harshly and her gaze locked with Bill’s through the glass. His eyes were wide and his usually tanned face was white.

  “I think we just might be, Esther Blake.”

  “Have you killed someone?”

  “Yes.”

  Esther slumped in her chair, the room spinning and closing in around her. “Who?” she whispered.

  Through the glass partition, Bill’s throat-slitting motions grew more frantic and she stared vacantly at him. Sitting upright in her chair, she forced herself to take control of the situation and focussed properly on Bill. She shook her head as the nutter’s voice hung disembodied in the small room.

  “There’s been more than one. I like to hurt women, Esther. Women like you.”

  Bill stared at her, silently pleading with her to end it, but once more she firmly shook her head. In matters like these, the decision whether to carry on with the caller or not ultimately rested with her. It had to because she was the one doing the talking, and Bill knew and respected that. But part of her wished that Bill would take charge and cut the fucker off.

  Christ, woman, keep it together. Don’t show weakness or you’ll be bullied forever by psychos like him calling you up.

  Against her better judgement, she chose to ignore the less-than-veiled threat.

  “You know what, Greg? The fact you’re calling up this show means you want to confess and I think that’s exactly what you should do. Call the police, Greg. Or if you’re full of crap, which for the record I strongly suspect that you are, please feel free to call you nearest, friendly, mental-health institution. Either way, go get yourself the help you so badly need.”

  Through the glass, she saw that Bill was cradling his head in his hands. Obviously, he thought she was mad to continue with this conversation. Her finger hovered over ‘Linda’ on line one.

  When he spoke next, his voice turned into a breathy whisper and her skin crawled.

  “I like sex, Esther. Lots and lots of sex. I like their screams, it gets me so hot.”

  It was all she could do to keep her voice low and reasonable when she replied: “Oh, wow, you desperately need professional help, Greg. I am not the person you should be calling. Whatever you think you’ve done, whatever you think you’ve seen, take it up with the authorities.”

  “I have a dolly in my lap,” he said, speaking quickly as if fully aware he was about to be cut off. “And her name is Esther Blake. She looks just like the hot piece of arse on the radio. I put a spell on you…” he began to sing in gravelly wail, and at last she severed the connection.

  The last thing she wanted to do was launch straight into another call, but she knew that she had to. Talking to someone else immediately afterwards would go some way to lessening the impact of the previous call. She didn’t want her listeners to have that creep’s voice echoing in their minds as she cut to a track. She didn’t want her listeners to know how freaked out she was.

  “Well, folks,” she drawled in her best, I-don’t-give-a-shit tones. Then she put on a comically deep voice, even though what she was feeling was about as far from ‘funny’ as it was possible to get. “That is what you call a loser. Let’s hope the poor guy gets some help because he sure does need it. Those little voices in his head need a good dose of Prozac to shut the hell up.”

  She went on to introduce Linda, doing her best to get her treacherous, thumping heart and trembling hands under control.

  Christ, I need a fag, she thought. She could still feel the bastard’s presence in the room, like he had poisoned the very air with his voice.

  As Linda droned on about her poltergeist, the creep’s words echoed in her head.

  I’ve got a dolly in my lap… And her name is Esther Blake…

  VIII

  Two hours later, out in the foyer, Esther shrugged on her ankle-length, leather coat over her tight, black jeans and clinging black top.

  “You look like the Angel of Death,” Bill cracked.

  “Yeah, well, if I ever meet that creep, I might become just that.”

  Bill looked genuinely contrite. “Shit, I’m sorry, Esther, I didn’t think he’d go that far…”

  “No shit.” Esther managed a smile, despite the inexplicable anxiety that tightened in her guts. “Goodnight, Bill, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  It was only some loser on the phone, it’s nothing to get uptight about. Bill’s reported it to the police, there’s nothing more we can do. Just let it go.

  Yet no matter how many times she told herself that, the bad feeling wouldn’t go away.

  “You should get a taxi home, it’s not safe on the tube this time of night.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s the safest place to be in all of London. And it’s stopped raining. How lucky can one girl get?”

  “Why don’t you just wait for me to finish up here? I’ve got some paperwork that can’t wait, but I’ll only be half an hour or so then I’ll take you home.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Bill, but I’m knackered, I just wanna get home. Besides, you live in the opposite end of London to me, I’m not having you travelling an hour out of your way on the bloody tube just to see me home.”

  “Esther, it’s not safe out there.”

  “I’m a big girl and I’ve lived in London all my adult life. I think I can manage this one little tube ride.”

  “Why don’t you get a taxi home, instead?”

  “At this time on a Saturday night? I’ll be waiting for hours. Besides, you don’t pay me enough for taxi rides. Really, Bill, will you stop? I’ll be fine.”

  Bill sighed and held up his hands in mock resignation. “Okay, okay, you win. I guess that caller just got me spooked.”

  Yeah. You and me both. “I’ll be fine. Goodnight.”

  Standing on tiptoes she pecked him on the cheek, and without a backward glance, she stepped out onto the rain-slicked streets of the London night.

  The district of Liverpool Street was always pretty empty this t
ime of night. The ‘suits’ that swarmed the area during the day and early evening were long gone. The bulk of the drunken revellers were in the trendier clubs and pubs up west and in the heart of London, and most of the pubs in Liverpool Street had already closed for the evening.

  The tube station was just a short distance away from the forty-floor, shiny tower-block where her radio station was situated on the ground floor. The dizzyingly-tall, glass and chrome buildings towered over her, their blank windows like a thousand pair of eyes watching her every move.

  Even the ‘click-clack’ of her boots seemed inordinately loud in the stillness of the night, like the sound of her walking might alert any potential predators to her presence.

  To him.

  No. Stop that now.

  Shuddering, she lobbed her half-smoked fag and picked up her pace, that feeling of being watched intensifying with every step. Up ahead, the sign for the station loomed. She quickened her pace, keen to get home to her trendy studio apartment in Blackfriars.

  “I put a spell on you…”

  Her blood turned to ice in her veins and for a second, nothing worked – not her legs, nor her head when she went to turn it – even her heart stopped beating for a second before resuming at twice normal speed.

  “Lord, Lord, Lord, because you’re mine.”

  She forced her treacherous body under control and turned her head to look behind her. The voice was unmistakable and she found she was trembling violently.

  It’s him…

  I’m going to die tonight.

  That last thought slammed into her brain with all the force of an eighteen-wheeler hitting the side-barrier on the motorway doing eighty.

  He stood perhaps five metres behind her, and, thanks to the surrounding chrome office-blocks, his figure had taken on a blueish tinge. His face was cast entirely into shadows, and he wore a long coat with his arms raised in the air.

  “I don’t care if you want me, because I’m yours, anyway,” he sang in a tuneless wail.

  Her paralysis broke and she lurched forwards, her feet pounding the pavement.

  Why is there no one around?

  The underground was so close now, all she had to do was cross the wide main road and she was there…

  Hands grabbed her from behind, wrapping around her shoulders and jolting her body painfully.

  “Gotcha,” he panted behind her.

  The hand clamped over her mouth silenced her scream, and she was forcibly dragged to the side of the pavement. His arms weren’t big, but God, he was strong. With seemingly no effort, he dragged her into a narrow alleyway nestled between a newsagent and a towering office-block.

  She found herself being shoved up against the brick wall of the newsagent, the stranger’s body pressed against hers. He kept his hand over her mouth and shoved her head back so hard it cracked against the wall. Stars leapt behind her eyes and her knees buckled, but his grip on her was sure and true, preventing her from crumpling to the ground.

  “Told you I would come for you,” he said, his spittle landing on her face.

  Through her swimming vision, she noted that he wasn’t much taller than her, and seemed so young.

  With his free hand, he pawed her body and she screamed into his palm. His fetid, garlic breath was hot on her face, and she gagged. His face was a blur of shadows, his hair and forehead all the way down to his eyebrows obscured by the black beanie he wore. She got the impression of glinting, pale-blue eyes, but it was so dark in the alleyway.

  “You feel so good,” he said, squeezing her tits through the tight, black top she wore.

  She squirmed in repulsion, but there was no wriggling away from him.

  Oh God, I should’ve got a fucking taxi…

  Then her mind and her body froze when she felt cold air on her bare stomach, followed by the hard press of something hard and even colder.

  Fuck! He’s got a knife.

  His hand pressed down harder on her mouth so that an eye-tooth caught her upper-lip and the coppery taste of her own blood filled her mouth. The blade of the knife pressed firmly against the exposed soft skin and rightly or wrongly, she acted on pure instinct.

  She brought her knee up into his groin with all the force she could muster and to her utter amazement she staggered backwards. She stood there swaying on the spot for a moment, not believing that she was free.

  He remained doubled over, like she had caused him great damage. She backed away from the alleyway, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

  Still doubled over, the man raised his head. From this far away his face was completely cast in shadows and for a ridiculous moment she was sure that he didn’t have a face at all.

  “Nothing is as it seems, Esther Blake. You’re journey to hell starts here.”

  “Fuck you,” she spat, turning on her heels and running in the direction of the tube.

  As she ran, she groped in her shoulder-bag for her phone. Her fingers curled around it and when she reached the entrance to the station, she pulled it out. The bloody thing was dead and she sobbed in frustration.

  Still panting hard from excursion and fear, she entered the deserted station.

  IX

  The tube platform was empty but it felt as if eyes were watching her. She shivered and wrapped the long coat more tightly around her body. On the curved wall on the opposite side of the tracks, a poster of a smiling woman beamed at her, extolling the virtues of the oversized tub of vitamin supplements that hovered in front of her face.

  Esther glared back at the manically grinning blonde, wondering if it was the dumb bitch on the poster that was making her feel so uneasy.

  Where is everyone?

  Usually, she shared the platform space with a few drunks or the usual array of late-night oddballs. But tonight, not a soul joined her. A movement out of the corner of her eye caused her to spin round, but the platform was empty.

  She was sure she had seen someone dart behind one of the thick white pillars by the entrance to the platform.

  Is there someone hiding there?

  Silently chiding herself for her jumpiness, she stared down at her feet, doing her best to ignore the chill that seeped into her bones. Esther had planned to tell the first person she saw about her attack, to ask them if they would mind if she borrowed their phone to call the police.

  But to her disbelief, she hadn’t met a single soul – not even one of the security guards that usually patrolled the underground late at night.

  It’s just bloody typical, I really don’t believe it…

  Beneath the irritation was something else; a stone-cold fear over the fact that there was simply no one around. This was London, for god’s sake, there was always someone, somewhere.

  Looks like I’m the only someone tonight.

  At last, the train pulled up in a screech of brakes and a rush of wind from the black depths of the tunnel. Except tonight, it didn’t sound so much like the usual rush of howling wind, but just plain old howling.

  When the sliding doors hissed open she paused for a second, irrationally terrified to step on-board.

  You’re hearing things, she sternly told herself. And is it any wonder with what just happened to you?

  Shaking her head, she boarded the train.

  Just get yourself home then call the police. Everything will be fine.

  The train doors slid shut with their usual hissing and beeping and panic bubbled up from her guts. She had to fight down the ridiculous urge to prise open the doors with her bare hands, or at the very least, pull the emergency cord. The stone-cold certainty that she simply did not want to be one this train knocked the breath out of her.

  Instead of acting like a lunatic, she took a seat in the middle of the carriage and the train lurched into the black depths of the tunnel. A cold sweat broke out over her back and she closed her eyes for a second, forcing herself under control.

  Get a hold of yourself, for God’s sake.

  She opened her eyes and leaned back in her seat, her vision blurrin
g with tears. She was completely alone, yet her skin prickled with the sensation that she was being watched. She stared at her morose face in the long window above the opposite seat that ran the length of the carriage. The glass was black and shiny. For some reason, she started to think about the black tunnel beyond the black glass and her stomach lurched with claustrophobia.

  Above her, the fluorescent strip-lighting flickered, and the prickling sensation in her skin intensified.

  Come on, Esther, this simply won’t do. Another twenty minutes and you’ll be home...

  Just as she thought that, the lights dipped out completely for a few seconds. The carriage was plunged into total blackness, and she was sure she could screaming; not one person screaming, but a whole load of people screaming.

  But as soon as the lights flickered back to life, she knew it was just the train howling along the track and her mind playing tricks on her.

  Oh Christ, not again, she thought as the lights dipped out once more for another few seconds. This time when they came back on, she let out a scream of terror. When she met the eyes of her reflection in the window opposite, surrounding her face were at least twenty others.

  Except these faces weren’t human. They were nearer gargoyles – hideous creatures with bulging foreheads, twisted features and sharp fangs.

  Some even had horns.

  She blinked, and the fleeting vision in the glass disappeared, leaving just her own terrified, wild-eyed reflection staring back at her. She found she was shaking and her heart was beating so hard she felt sure that it might stop altogether.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Nothing, that’s what.

  Surely it was normal to see things after a traumatic experience? But as much as she told herself that, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.

  The next stop was Aldgate which the train had to be pulling into any second now.

  Maybe I should just get off there…

  But what good would that achieve? She still had to get home, creepy hallucinations not withstanding.