by Gary McMahon
“Sorry. I was miles away, there. Thinking about that stupid old fart.” He looked down, at the surface of the work bench. “I miss him. Even though we hadn’t spoken for years, I bloody miss him.” He poured boiling water into the cups and waited for the teabags to brew. After a few seconds of silence, he fished out the used teabags with a teaspoon and flicked them both into the sink.
Marc said nothing. He didn’t want to intrude upon the man’s thoughts.
Rose added the milk and sugar to the mugs, and then handed one to Marc. “Cheers.”
Marc raised his mug. “Salute.” It had been Harry’s favoured toast; he even said it when he was drinking a glass of water.
Marc took a long drink. The tea was hot and sweet; strongly flavoured. “That’s a nice bastard brew,” he said, out of habit. He always used to say the same phrase to Harry; over time it became a kind of running joke. Their relationship had rested on things like that: quirks and mannerisms, phrases and peculiarities. Harry had been an awkward man, and sometimes he refused to discuss a subject in a direct manner. He liked to talk around things, to make Marc work for the information. Sometimes he could be morose and even uncommunicative, but he always asked Marc to come back and see him. He was lonely. He liked the company of another human being. Marc hoped that the old bastard hadn’t been too lonely when he died.
“I miss him, too,” said Marc. “He was a one-off: a true original.”
They drank their teas and waited for the atmosphere to level out. Something had come into the room, perhaps it had followed him in from outside. It skulked around in the corners, watching them with envy. After a short while, it left them alone, and Marc was able to adjust to the house without Harry Rose. At first he’d wanted to leave; now he wanted to see why he’d been invited here.
“You hungry?” Rose began to open the bread.
“Yeah. A bit.” Marc stood, crossed to the sink, and rinsed out his cup with cold water from the tap before placing it in the sink.
“Let’s eat first, and then I’ll tell you what I found.”
Marc turned around, rested the small of his back against the edge of the sink. “Okay, that sounds good. I never like to solve a mystery on an empty stomach.”
Rose laughed. “Oh, there’s no mystery. Not really. It’s just some stuff... Harry stuff.”
“Yeah... Harry stuff.”
Marc knew exactly what was meant by that remark. One of Harry’s habits had been that he often brought home random objects, bits and pieces of junk, old files and paperwork, books without covers, broken toys. Sometimes he fixed the toys and gave them away to charity shops. More often than not, he made something different out of them, perhaps combining the remains of two or three items to construct a third. Marc remembered the time he’d made a scale replica of the Needle out of old-fashioned foil milk bottle tops. He still had no idea where Harry had found the bottle tops, but one day when he’d come to visit, there’d been a cloth sack filled with them on top of the cooker.
Harry Rose had been a creative man, but a lot of the time that creativity had been focused on wasteful things, turned in the wrong direction. Sometimes it was even directed inwards, and had manifested in extended bouts of manic depression when Harry would lock himself away and refuse to see anyone.
Rose piled high a plate with sandwiches and set it down on the table. The two men ate in silence for a while, gazing at the food and chewing slowly.
A shaft of sunlight shone through the kitchen window, moved slowly across the table between them and then vanished; a ghost of light, a promise of something that could never be realised.
“How well did you know my brother?”
Marc glanced up from his plate and saw that Rose was staring at him intently, with a serious expression on his thin, weathered face.
“I know you spent a lot of time together over the last few weeks of his life, but did he open up to you?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.” Marc put down the remains of his sandwich and waited.
“Okay, let me ask you a question. How did you meet Harry? What brought you here, to him?”
Marc leaned back in his chair. He glanced at the window. The sunlight had dimmed; the patch of visible sky outside was flat and inexpressive. “My uncle used to know Harry, years ago. Uncle Mike died of a brain tumour while I was still at Uni. It was sudden. I’d always had a lot of time for the guy – he raised me when my parents died. He wasn’t a real uncle... he was, well, just a friend of the family, I suppose. It seemed natural for him to look after me when my folks died.” He paused, looked again at the window. It was slightly brighter: a rectangle of pasty light. Said out loud, his life story seemed strange, as if it was a fiction. The edges didn’t quite fit together; there were gaps that he could not fill.
“So you already knew about Harry? You were aware of him?”
“Yes, I was. The reason I’m writing this book about the Northumberland Poltergeist case is because Uncle Mike used to talk about it all the time. He was kind of obsessed with what went on in the Needle all those years ago. I think he worked here, on the estate, and he knew a few of the people involved – maybe even the kids, the Pollack twins.”
Rose nodded. “Yes. That sounds about right.”
“You knew my uncle, too?”
Rose shook his head. “Not really. Even then, I’d cut my ties with this place. But me and Harry were still speaking back then. I used to come and visit him, and there were always all kinds of people in this house. He knew everyone. He loved to talk and to socialise. Christ, sometimes I wonder if we even came from the same stock.” He laughed softly, but it was a strained sound, as if he had to coax it from his throat. “I think your uncle was one of the blokes Harry used to drink with. I remember a Mike – big guy, with masses of curly black hair?”
“Yes,” said Marc. “That was him. People used to call him Stavros, after the sidekick from Kojak.” He smiled.
“God, yes... now I definitely remember him.” He shook his head.
There was another period of silence, but this one didn’t last for long.
“Harry was a strange man. He collected information in the same way that other people like to collect stamps or books or little pottery figurines. He liked urban myths and tall tales. He collected other people’s stories and kept them inside his head. I’m sure one day he intended to write a book of some kind, but never got around to it. But the older he got, the more withdrawn he became. Then he simply stopped being so sociable, as if he had too many stories in his head and there wasn’t room for any more.”
Marc smiled, remembering the way Harry Rose’s face used to light up whenever he talked about things that had gone on in the area.
“He also collected... other things.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was something of a kleptomaniac, my brother. He liked to take things that weren’t his. Like a magpie drawn to shiny objects, he couldn’t resist nabbing something that might have a story attached to it.”
“I see.”
“He kept a lot of this stuff in the attic rooms. Did he ever show you those rooms?” Rose glanced upwards, at the ceiling.
“No,” said Marc. “He never even mentioned them.”
“Okay.” Rose stood, pushing out his chair, and crossed to the window. He stared out of it for a moment, and then turned back to face the room again. “So I went up there to see what he might be keeping. I thought that I might be able to return some stuff to its rightful owners, if there was anything valuable, or maybe even sell it.” He paused, looked down at the floor, and then back up again, at Marc. “He’d got rid of most of it, emptied out the rooms. To make space.”
“Space?” Marc stretched his neck. It was aching. He must have slept in a bad position at Abby’s place. “Space for what?”
Rose walked across the kitchen, approached the table, but did not sit back down. “I think it’s best if I show you.” His jacket was hanging on the back of the chair. He reached into the inside pocke
t and brought out a folded A4-size manila envelope. “But first let me give you this.”
Marc reached out and took the envelope. His name was written on the front. He recognised Harry’s handwriting.
“I found it in his bedroom, on the bedside cabinet. He must have left it for you to find.” He remained standing, watching Marc as he examined the envelope.
“Thanks,” said Marc. He tore open the envelope and took out what was inside: a photocopied sheet of paper, folded down the middle. He straightened out the sheet of paper and saw that it was a copy of a brief extract from somebody’s diary.
I think somebody hates us. he is in the house all the time but we cant see him. he makes niose when nowbody else is here. he wants to hurt us. we hide under the bed when mummy and daddy are in the pub. he canit see us there. we inibible. inbisevil. he canit see us. but he is there. in the walls and under the floor. he creeps about and peeps threw the gaps to try and see me and daisy flower. I am scared. I can here him now. he goes clikcety clikcety like when I spilt my marbels on the kichen floor. clikcey clikcety clikc.
He read it through twice, understanding dawning upon him long before he’d finished rereading the words. “It’s Jack Pollack... the little boy. It’s the boy who lived in the Needle and was haunted by the Northumberland Poltergeist. He wrote this, didn’t he?”
Rose did not respond. He just stood there, watching.
Marc grabbed the envelope again and peered inside. He’d missed something in his haste: a second sheet of paper, this one an original rather than a photocopy.
He gripped the sheet of paper by the edges with both hands, as if he were afraid it might burn or blow away. Upon it was drawn the crude representation of a figure. It looked like a man, but could also have been a woman. It was difficult to assign a gender because the figure was wearing a long, black cape that smothered its body and a white, beaked mask over its face. In its hand was raised a short, thin stick or wand with a pointed end.
This was obviously a child’s drawing. The lines were jagged, the shading went outside the lines, and the overall effect was that of crudity, juvenile artlessness... and yet, the drawing held an element of horror that Marc found difficult to ignore. The face was coloured with white crayon, the cape shaded in broad, angry strokes of a thick, black pencil.
Underneath this character was written its name, in the same clumsy, misspelled handwriting as he’d read in the diary extract:
captain clikcety
“He never told me he had anything like this.” He looked up, at Rose, and the room pitched to one side, causing him to shudder. He felt like a man on a little boat, yearning for the shore.
“Maybe he didn’t have it then. He might have got hold of this stuff just before he died, and not had time to show it to you.”
“I saw him in hospital several times before he died. We talked about a lot of things – my book included, to keep his mind off his pain. He would’ve said. He would’ve told me. I’m sure of it.”
“Then I don’t know why he didn’t. Come on. Let me show you what else I found.”
Rose waited for Marc to rise and then walked out of the room, to the stairs. He paused at the bottom, resting one hand on the wall-mounted wooden banister, and then began to climb.
Marc followed him up to the first floor, noting the sound of the stairs as they creaked beneath their weight. They walked along the landing to the second stairway at the opposite end – one that had been added after the house was built, when the attic space was converted into habitable rooms.
Rose took out a set of keys and selected one of them. He unlocked the sturdy wooden door that sealed the stairway, and pushed it open. He reached inside and flicked a switch. The light came on up the stairs; a single bulb hanging from the ceiling at the top.
“Up here,” he said, redundantly.
Marc was glad he’d spoken. The atmosphere was starting to feel strange, as if there might be something up there at roof level that he might regret seeing.
He followed Rose up the narrow staircase. The timber creaked even louder than before, and Marc had the weird sensation that there were more people packed into the cramped space than just the two of them. He resisted the urge to turn around and see who was following them – he knew there was nobody there, but his body was trying to convince him otherwise. The back of his neck was prickling; his spine felt warm, as if a hand were rubbing it through his shirt.
At the top of the stairs there was a door on each side of the tiny landing, where the attic was effectively split in two. Both of the doors were closed. The single bare bulb on the ceiling between the doors struggled to illuminate the space, as if something were pushing back the light. Marc kept expecting it to flicker and then go out, but it didn’t. That only ever happened in horror films, and not in real life. Or so he kept telling himself, just to dispel the slow-creeping dread that had followed him up the stairs.
“I’ll show you the library first,” said Rose, his voice seeming too loud in the stairwell.
“The library?” said Marc, just trying to fill the space with his voice.
Rose stepped up onto the small landing area and used another key to unlock the door on the left.
“Security conscious, wasn’t he?”
Rose didn’t reply. He simply nodded once. Then he opened the door and stepped inside.
Marc was reluctant to follow, but he knew he should. In fact, he had little choice in the matter. Despite what his body was telling him, there was nothing to be afraid of here, deep inside the house of his old friend Harry Rose. There was nothing to fear; nothing that could hurt him. And if he was lucky, there might just be something in the attic that would bring his stalled book project back to life.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROYLE WAS SCARED to go down to the basement. It was an embarrassing admission, even if it was only to himself, but the lower level of the Far Grove police station had always made him afraid. Over ground, he was okay. He felt not a tremor of apprehension regarding the station. But once he was forced to go underneath, the fear kicked in. He was reminded of the Crawl, and how it made him feel.
The main building had been built in the mid nineteen seventies, but it had been constructed over the top of the former police station, which had been a lot older. The contractor had decided to keep the original basement and foundations, using it as a platform on which to mount the new station superstructure. The old basement had been where the cells were. Small rooms with rusted iron bars, each one containing only a tiny sink and with a metal bed frame bolted to the floor. The detainment facilities they used these days were much more modern and comfortable; those old Victorian cells were like something out of Bedlam. Whenever he was down in the basement, Royle imagined the people who’d been caged there. He felt their eyes upon him; he heard their screams ringing in the air. He could almost see them crawling across the floor towards him...
He knew it was just his mind creating an atmosphere that didn’t exist in reality, but this knowledge did nothing to reassure him. Whatever he did, however hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the nagging fear that this place was home to ghosts.
The elevator doors opened and he stood looking out into the main access corridor. He knew that he should just step out and make his way to his destination, but his body refused to obey the simple command.
The old stone basement walls had been rendered with plaster and painted what was meant to be a soothing shade of white, contemporary lighting had been fitted, and new rooms had been created within the underground space... but still, the place held a sense of dread and expectation. To Royle, it was like walking into a military bunker. As he passed open doors, he half expected to glimpse inside those rooms men in shirtsleeves leaning over table-top maps of war, moving little plastic flags around as they planned their invasion. White collars, small round spectacles, pale skin, peering eyes.
Royle finally stepped out of the elevator and turned right, heading for the small on-site lab. The facility wasn’t much to brag a
bout, but it was somewhere the two resident techies could examine evidence that was considered urgent or too sensitive to be shipped out to the technical team based in Newcastle. The apparatus they had was limited, but the technicians – Miss Wandaful and Charlie – were talented and dedicated; they worked until the job was done, and never gave excuses when things went wrong.
He approached the computer server room and paused to glance inside the open door. He listened to the humming of the big extractor fans as they sucked warm air out through vents and through hidden ductwork, keeping the machines cool. The air-conditioned breeze cooled his cheeks. A man in jeans and a blue police-issue polo shirt was examining the system, making notes in a small black book. The man turned around and smiled. Royle recognised his face but was unable to put a name to it, so he simply nodded in greeting and continued walking along the corridor.
The lab door opened before he could reach it and Wanda Harper – the head technician – came out, her fingers struggling to take the cellophane wrapper off a fresh packet of cigarettes. She didn’t see Royle at first, but when she looked up her eyes opened wider, as if she were startled.
“Ah,” she said. “Fuck it. I thought I had another fifteen minutes before the hassle arrived.” She smiled to show that she was at least half joking.
“Sorry, Miss Wandaful, but you know me – always a few minutes ahead of the game.” Royle watched as the woman slipped the cigarettes into the back pocket of her jeans, under the white lab coat. She ran her hands through her spiky dyed blonde hair and rubbed at her temples, as if trying to ward off a headache.
“Well, seeing as you’re here...” Wanda reached back and made a big show of opening the lab door. “Age before beauty,” she said, bowing her head in mock deference as he entered.
The small room was crammed so full of stuff that it could barely fit two people, so it was always a relief when one of the technicians was on holiday – as was the case this week. The tiled walls were lined with shelves, each one packed to breaking point with box files or rows of medical supplies – bottles, cardboard boxes, instruments in sterilising machines. The floor was littered with filing cabinets, small cooler boxes and portable freezer boxes. Everywhere there were random pieces of equipment, and Royle felt hemmed in, as if he’d entered a storage facility rather than an annexe of a functioning police station.