Unspeakable

by Marturano, Tony

  BONG: Ringing Heron Heights, Answer? YES / NO

  “SHIT!”

  She scrambled behind the desk, yanked the headset out of the switchboard, snatched the lamp from the desk, fell to her knees and searched behind the computer for the jack socket. She found it and pushed the plug home.

  BONG: Ringing Heron Heights, Answer? YES / NO

  “YES! Damn it!”

  She dragged the headset onto her head and clicked the YES button.

  The screen divided, information about the call was displayed on the left and an electronic notepad appeared on the right.

  A discreet beep sounded in her ear; she was connected.

  “Good evening, Heron Heights, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Hey, whatever happened to answering before the third ring?”

  It was Jason.

  “Oh god, Jason.” She said breathlessly.

  “What’s up?”

  She sighed, deeply, “Oh nothing. Just, wondering who the hell it was.”

  “Think it was your boss checking up on you.”

  “Yes, you could say….”

  Rachel was unable to finish the rest of her sentence when she noticed what was on her screen.

  Incredibly, another window had opened displaying fluorescent green text on a black backdrop that read:

  KERI: > Good evening. Heron Heights. Sorry to keep you waiting.

  HERON: > Hey whatever happened to answering before the third ring.

  KERI: > O god. Jason

  HERON: > Whats up.

  KERI: > O nothing. Just wondering who the hell it was.

  It took Rachel a few seconds to realise that it was the transcript of her telephone conversation. The window was date stamped with the time and milliseconds of the call.

  “Rach?”

  “I’m here.” She said, gawping at the box as it transcribed her words.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I'm good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Never been better.” She said as a huge grin spread across her face.

  She liked this, it was cool.

  It was really cool.

  26 Eyes

  Night had enveloped the city by the time Ashley reached her destination.

  She had driven east, across London, to the borough of Southwark right in the middle of rush hour. This gave her ample opportunity to consider the multiple reasons why she should make a U-turn back home.

  She thought about what Rupert’s reaction might be when he found out, or that of Jackie Harris’ neighbours when they spotted a stranger casually walking into the dead woman’s home or, if she was really lucky, that of the police who’d be keen to know why the hell the last person to speak to Jackie Harris, alive, was now snooping around her home under the cover of darkness.

  All more than motivating reasons yet turning back wasn’t an option, she needed to see this through.

  Thus, against every shred of common sense, Ashley parked her car just down the road from St Andrew’s Court and walked the rest of the way, so as to attract the least amount of attention.

  Number 6, St Andrew’s Court was in the middle of a clutch of older houses that were still standing in the shadow of London’s newest landmark, The Shard.

  Most of the nearby land had been reclaimed to build affordable flats to tackle London’s ever growing housing crisis.

  Ashley drew her coat around her and hunched against the bitter cold gale. It had pulled her hair and spat at her from the moment she left the warmth of the car, as if incensed by her presence here.

  Hands thrust into her pockets, she gripped the concealed weapon that was the flashlight she’d retrieved from the glove compartment of her car.

  Then, she crossed the court and headed for the only house that did not have its lights on and curtains drawn against the night.

  All around her, windows, like giant fireflies, glowed amber in the night.

  Mercifully, the surrounding streets were empty, but for a suited man who exited a red Audi. He hastily said something to the driver, and then dashed into one of the nearby flats for cover from the gathering rain.

  Ashley stopped outside number 6 and casually looked around herself, trying to look as inconspicuous as she could, while making sure nobody was watching her.

  She had been here just once before. It was after a lunch meeting with Jackie.

  During lunch, the ex-police officer candidly stated that if Ashley wanted to read any excerpts from the manuscript, she would have to do so at her home, in front of her. She made it clear that she had no intention of letting it out of her sight, at least not before it was ready to go to print.

  Ashley had obliged and remembered how, on that day, Jackie had joked that, for an ex-copper she wasn’t particularly security conscious.

  This was way before it was announced that she planned to expose the Metropolitan Police as institutionally corrupt.

  She then proceeded to retrieve a spare key from a secret hiding place, telling Ashley to ignore everything that she was about to see.

  The two black ceramic lions, mouths crafted wide in a silent roar, were still standing guard on either side of the front door.

  They, Jackie explained, were an ostentatious gift from her aunt, who apparently snapped them up at a bargain sale at a local DIY store.

  The sound of a car brought Ashley back to the present and she spun to catch the glowing taillights of a vehicle disappearing around the corner.

  What the hell are you doing out here?

  She was exposed, and she needed to get inside, fast.

  She scanned the area once more; despite her paranoia, nobody seemed to care about her presence here. There were no doors opened, no curtains twitching.

  I don’t want to be here.

  Yes, you do.

  No, I don’t.

  Why are you here exactly? For Harrison? For Jackie? For you?

  Just get on with it!

  Her hands were trembling, whether this was due to the freezing rain that was now falling in sheets or the crazy act she was about to commit, Ashley did not know. However, slowly and way too surely, she willed herself to insert her hand into the mouth of one of the lions only to snatch it back, yelping and rubbing her fingers against her jeans.

  Eww.

  She shuddered with revulsion, shook her hand and squirmed a few times more. Whatever she had touched was cold and slimy, and could only be a slug or something equally revolting.

  A snail with no shell, that’s all it is.

  I can’t do this.

  Get on with it! A woman is dead, Ash.

  With that, and grimacing all the way, she forced her hand back into the lion’s mouth, and this time was relieved to feel her fingers brush against a leather key fob and then the jagged edges of a key.

  She walked up to the front door and, in one swift motion, unlocked it and stepped inside.

  The relief was instant.

  She pushed the door shut and then leant against it, as she took a few seconds to enjoy the respite from the elements. Rainwater dribbled off her hair and down her face, and her coat leaked onto the carpet.

  Then she felt her nose with the back of her hand, it was numb from the cold.

  The house didn’t feel much better. It was unusually chilly, still and very uninviting. Everything appeared to be switched off. No hum of kitchen appliances or reassuring drone of the central heating.

  Just more cold.

  There was a sweet scent of artificial honeysuckle in the air; a battery operated air freshener was continuing its work somewhere, regardless of that fact that its owner was no longer alive to appreciate it.

  The dim glow of streetlight filtered in through nearby windows, slowly defining silhouettes of furniture that haunted the lounge.

  Directly ahead, was the couch, in front of that the TV and beyond that, an archway led to the dining room.

  After pulling the curtains shut, Ashley switched on the flashlight, scaring back the shadows.

&n
bsp; Thankfully, her orientation was aided by the memory of her recent visit.

  Okay, now that you are in here. What the hell are you going to do? You don’t have a clue where this thing is. The Police could have already taken it for all you know.

  The beam of the torch licked across basic furniture and white walls.

  Have the police actually been out here at all?

  She made her way through the archway and into the small dining room. There was a little table in here with a wall unit. She opened the doors and searched inside, but found nothing but a shoebox full of cutlery and a shelf full of table linen.

  Beyond the dining room was a tiny kitchen. The surfaces were clean; nothing seemed conspicuously out of place, and she doubted very much that there would be anywhere in here that Jackie would have hidden her manuscript. Besides, when she came over that day, she remembered Jackie disappearing upstairs before returning with the printed pages.

  Tap! Tap! Screech!

  The sound made Ashley literally jump on the spot and drop her torch, causing it to skitter then roll across the black and white tiles.

  Her heart pounded and a sickly wave of hot and cold shivers skittered over her; something, outside, in the back garden, was tapping and scraping at the glass of the patio door.

  Tap! Tap!

  She yelped.

  That’s when she noticed, from bony claw shadows projected all over the walls and kitchen units, that the visitor was actually an overgrown branch. The wind was forcing the tree that towered over the house, to bend to its will.

  Jesus Christ!

  Ashley hastily retrieved the stricken flashlight, retraced her steps back through the lounge and then climbed the stairs but froze when one of the steps creaked particularly loudly.

  There’s nobody here!

  Nonetheless, she listened carefully, just to make sure the whole neighbourhood hadn’t heard the creak. Then, slowly and carefully resumed her journey upward, passing a water pastel painting of rivers and cornfields as well as an array of photo frames of smiling strangers.

  The first room she came across was a small box bedroom which, by the presence of an ironing board and basket full of laundered clothes, doubled as an ironing room.

  The second room was much bigger with a double bed, wardrobe and a desk, upon which stood a flat-screen monitor.

  She noticed immediately that the curtains were open, and worried that the flashlight could be seen by the world outside. On the other hand, while the streetlight overspill was useful, it wouldn’t be enough for her to conduct her search.

  She’d have to risk it.

  She sat down at the desk and started searching through drawers, revealing stationery items, manila folders, pens and plain paper, but nothing that resembled a manuscript or any clue as to its whereabouts.

  “It’s safe. I’ve stashed it in a secret hiding place in my bedroom. Somewhere London’s finest wouldn’t even have the balls to look.”

  She remembered Jackie’s words, as she searched through diaries and various documents, in the hope of finding a clue about where the pen drive might be, but she realised she was clutching at straws.

  She thought back to her meeting with Jackie and what she had said. She’d told her that they had broken into her home while she was in bed!

  “Somewhere London’s finest wouldn’t even have the balls to look.”

  She allowed the torch beam to probe the shadows in the room, to violate every nook and cranny of the space that Jackie Harris once occupied, and it made her feel very sad.

  This was hopeless.

  Worse, a woman was dead. Another human being had met a horrific end to her life on this earth, and what was her reaction to this? To search her home, like some kind of literary scavenger; violating the dead woman’s things in the hope of finding a manuscript that was, so bloody obviously, long gone!

  She felt ashamed and angry at herself. Angry not only with her behaviour, but at her stupidity.

  If Jackie was actually being stalked, and if somebody had the audacity to break into her home and make the woman paranoid enough to not want to copy her manuscript to her computer hard drive, then she was hardly going to leave a printed version, the pen drive, or even clues about the drive’s location lying around, was she?

  Shame you didn’t take time out to deduce this rational conclusion before setting out for this place. You idiot!

  She took a few seconds to take stock. She contemplated getting out and leaving this whole sorry story behind her. Forget the manuscript, and forget that Jackie Harris had ever gone to her with this.

  But now she felt worse.

  Forget Jackie Harris. Is that what she would have wanted? For you to forget her. After all of her hard work. After everything she has been through, you want to forget her?

  She was so frustrated she could have screamed.

  Instead, she fumbled, angrily, under the desk until she felt the front of the computer and the power button.

  Instantly, the machine began to whir and booting information appeared on the computer screen.

  She left her seat and went to the wardrobe. As soon as the doors were open, she flipped on the flashlight to reveal hanging garments; blouses, shirts, suits, even a police uniform.

  Underneath these, was a long wooden box, it ran the length and breadth of the wardrobe.

  This looks promising.

  She fell to her knees, lifted the lid off the box and shone light inside, revealing shoes, trainers, boots and heels, but no manuscript.

  No pen drive.

  A search around and, as far as she could see, on top and behind the wardrobe, yielded the same result, as did that of the two bedside cabinets.

  She returned to the computer and noticed that it was stuck the C of the DOS prompt, and the cursor was flashing, helplessly, awaiting further instructions.

  She typed in DIR, but the computer returned no files or directories.

  So, it was true. They really have been here, and they really have formatted the drive.

  This chilled her, as the gravity of everything Jackie had said suddenly sank in. These people really would stop at nothing.

  So what the hell was she doing there?

  She was done.

  She killed the whirring of the computer and stood up, now more than ever, eager to get out of that house and get back home.

  But that’s when she noticed it.

  The bed.

  She’d walked around it while searching the bedside cabinets but…

  “Somewhere London’s finest wouldn’t even have the balls to look.”

  Jackie told her that they had broken into her home while she was in it.

  Presumably, asleep, in her bed. Would they have had the balls to look under her bed while she was in it?

  She fell to the carpet, pulled up the hanging quilt and pushed back the darkness with the flashlight to reveal the handle of a small suitcase.

  Really?

  She pulled it out and flipped the locks open.

  The case was full of envelopes, letters, bills, insurance policies and various receipts, but no pen drive.

  She rummaged through and under the paperwork, then carefully examined every inch of the case, paying particular attention to the lining, in the hope of finding some kind of hidden recess.

  Nothing.

  Frustrated, she slammed the case’s lid shut, pushed it aside with contempt, and sulked for a few seconds.

  Then, she was casting the flashlight under the bed once more.

  Empty.

  She swept the beam, like a searchlight, as far as the light would travel, but there was nothing else under there.

  So, it was with despondence, that she kept the light trained on the space directly in front her with one hand, while sliding the case into view with the other.

  She was about to push the thing back from whence it came when she noticed an irregularity in the beam; carpet fibre. Nothing too obvious, just a few strands standing conspicuously to attention right where the
case once rested.

  She scrambled further under the bed until her progress was impeded by the bulk of her coat. She promptly shrugged it off, and discarded it to one side, before returning to the task in hand.

  It smelt dusty underneath the bed and, as she inched forward, a cloud of dust, and most likely an army of mites, she thought, drifted in front her.

  She pushed any images of magnified monsters from her head, determined to stay focussed on her objective.

  As her face drew closer to the strands, she could clearly see that they marked an actual tear in the carpet, maybe even a cut.

  Maybe even one that had been made deliberately to house a pen drive.

  She examined the slit with her fingers, and concluded that it was in fact big enough to conceal a drive, without it being obvious.

  Could this be it?

  She pushed her fingers further into the cavity just as the beam of her light began to fade.

  “No…” She complained as if the thing could hear her.

  But the traitor wasn’t listening and instead it dramatically flickered a few times.

  “No!” she protested again, and smacked it on the carpet, but that did little to revive the thing. If anything, the impacts finished it off since, after a few more spluttering flashes, the room was plunged into darkness, but for the jaundice light overspill from the city outside.

  Ashley remained still for a few seconds, contemplating her next move. She closed her eyes, as if to transfer additional sensory powers to her fingers where, no matter how far she probed, she still felt nothing.

  They’ve been here already. Must have....

  That’s when it came.

  A sound so loud, a cacophony so jarring in the still of the house, that it caused Ashley’s body to jolt for the second time that evening. She smacked her head against the undercarriage of the bed and winced.

  The noise was coming from the stairs and sounded like smashing glass.

  Jesus Christ!

  Ashley extricated her body from the bed and jumped to her feet so fast, the act literally made her head spin.

  She paused for a few seconds to listen. The sound had stopped.

  Had somebody flipped over the wall unit downstairs?

  Is it them?

  Are they back?

  Heart pounding and pulse racing, she reluctantly crept over to the bedroom door, that she’d had the presence of mind to push to when she entered. She had left a slit wide enough to offer a scary view of the stairs that were eerily lit in sallow yellow, thanks to a small landing window.