LAURENCE STAIG
Closed Circuit
LAURENCE STAIG tries to live and write in Suffolk. A former arts administrator, he can often be found in The Star, Lidgate. He has been described as “. . . the Stephen King of teenage books . . .”, and since he began writing for older children a few years ago he has produced such novels as The Network, Digital Vampires, The Glimpses, The Companion and The Night Run, as well as the genuinely quirky short story collections Twisted Circuits, Electric Heroes, and Dark Toys and Consumer Goods.
He is currently working on his first adult novel and for the past three years has been Writer in Residence for the USA Spoleto Festival in South Carolina.
Although “Closed Circuit” originally appeared in a collection aimed at young adults, its unsettling blend of techno-horror should leave the most blasé horror fan with sweaty palms.
THEIR MOTHER HAD ALWAYS been afraid of multi-storey car parks.
There was no particular reason for this, no easily identifiable explanation. She just was.
Something about mazes? Perhaps.
Now she would have to learn to love them.
The Anderson family had been awarded one of the remaining places in the Township. Happy Sterling was to be their new home. It had taken her husband years to accrue enough Government Credits to qualify for a Development Corporation place. She had even surrendered her own right to Employment Credits in order to hurry things along. The Ministry of Placing offered an entire range of incentives.
At last they were there, everything to hand and with no need to worry about disruptive minority groups such as the Rioters and the Campaigners. Just spoiling it for others. Besides, it seemed such a nice place to live.
She would have to try to live with the car park. There was nowhere else to shop and a car was the safest way to get around. In any case, Consumer Comfort Shopping Mall boasted that they could provide everything you would ever want, all under one roof.
It was an oppressive kind of day. The sky lay like a dirty grey blanket, threatening to flop down upon them at any moment. There had been a thickening of Meltdown Jetsam lately and that always played havoc with the weather, or so she had been told by a guard on the freeway. It would almost certainly rain, which could be the only good reason for getting “under cover”.
Mrs Anderson took a deep breath and approached the ramp which led from Housing Zone Zero 9 to the Mall. The entrance peeped out from below a dark monolithic block of concrete. Windowless, it squatted, waiting, at the far end of the access lane.
At first they thought they were driving into an enormous silver fishing net. Only when the bonnet of the car was almost touching the gleaming chrome of the mesh did they realise that it was a portcullis.
They had reached the ticket dispenser. The car window wound slowly down. A small plastic card slid from the yellow meter as if it were offering its tongue for inspection.
Mrs Anderson took the card.
A synthesised voice crooned, “Welcome to Happy Sterling, have a happy shopping trip,” and a green light flashed through the chrome mesh. Overhead, angry clouds shifted uneasily, globules of burn-out floated through the ozone as a spatter of raindrops hit the windscreen.
After a few moments the car advanced beneath the rising gate. Cautiously it crept into a dimly lit concrete cavern of invisible corridors and brief instructions:
UP, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, NO ENTRY, STAIRCASE, LEVEL 8
John had been silent until now.
A brilliantly lit sign flashed a reassuring message as they manoeuvred into the UP, LEVEL 8 Lane: “No vandalism here thanks to CONSUMER COMFORT SHOPPING CIRCUIT Ltd.” Below these, there was a friendlier message in red:
“YOUR PEACE OF MIND IS OUR PEACE OF MIND.”
“How can they stop vandalism?” asked John.
His mother had also noticed the sign.
“Did you see what we had to get through to get in here!”
“Oh.”
To the left a further sign announced: “You have entered at Level 8.”
The car park appeared to be almost full. It was vast and impersonal. Even cars which seemed to have their own character and appeal became cold and purely functional once they sat in a multi-storey.
Perhaps it was this that made her afraid.
The building was deserted except for the rows of vehicles, neatly positioned in their bays. There was an equal assortment of new and old cars, all shapes and sizes. John was prompted into considering the possible re-introduction of his car cleaning service.
There seemed to be a lot of cars in Happy Sterling. When they lived in the north he had supplemented his weekly pocket money by this little weekend enterprise. Only when they introduced the Class Zoning system did the bookings start to fall. Manchester and Liverpool had been classified as Resting Only sectors. His father had accrued enough Merits to be awarded a job, which meant they had to move south, along with everybody else who had earned that privileged status.
It seemed a good system to John; the Riot Class could all be kept together, out of the way of socially useful groups such as the Producers and the Investment City areas. Still, he was glad that he hadn’t been born into an Investors’ family group. He would have had to live in an Investors’ sector like his phone-friend, Jimmy. They all wore special uniforms and always spoke “Computer”. At least as a re-classified Consumer Class family the Andersons could wear what they liked. The area was noted for its islands of industry. Living standards here were really high. The Andersons were lucky. The Great Meltdown had given everyone the chance to start again, right from scratch.
John decided that the return of the “Anderson Car Cleaning Service” was a must. Many of the cars seemed very dirty, almost abandoned. He decided that the township must be full of either very lazy or very busy people.
“This is crazy!” said his mother suddenly.
John had been so preoccupied with the various models that he had not noticed their arrival at Level 1, the very top. John thought this a strange place to start numbering, surely you started at the bottom?
“Stay calm,” whispered Mrs Anderson, “it’ll make sense soon.”
She took a deep breath and drove on.
Julie, John’s little sister, had been asleep in the back seat. With a yawn she sat up and looked through the rear window. The had left the north very early that morning and Julie always slept a lot.
“Are we there, Mummy?”
Mrs Anderson searched the level. She looked desperately for a space, or even the tell-tale indicators of a departing car. There was nothing.
The outside wind howled through the air vents and echoed across the gallery, the only indication of the storm. Rows upon rows of silent cars waited, patiently.
This was the largest multi-storey car park they had ever seen.
“Can we get out and see where we are?” asked Julie. “Can we see our new house?”
“Don’t be stupid!” snapped John. “This is an enclosed car park, there’s nothing to see. Anyway there wouldn’t be anything to look at. Our estate’s access-way goes straight into the Mall, it overlaps, stupid.”
Julie tried to picture this in her head, but gave up.
“Quiet, you kids,” said their mother.
Her nerves tingled.
“The centre must be packed but we’ve at least got to get something to eat. Dad will be here tonight. The Development Corporation won’t be delivering the packing cases till tomorrow. I guess it’s down we go again.”
“Aren’t there any other shops?” groaned John. “I only want a hamburger.”
“Not according to their little blue handbook,” she replied.
They kept going down.
“CONSUMER COMFORT is the only place to shop as far as I can tell. Give me a break, John, we’ve only just moved here. I don’t know the neighbourhood yet.”
John threw himself back in his seat. He was bored. He thought of all those cars again and mentally tried to calculate how much he could make if he got the
job of cleaning all the cars on one level.
Slowly, their old estate car crept back down through the levels. Large yellow arrows directed them into narrow lanes. These, in turn, sub-divided into UP or DOWN or HALT. The options were clear.
LEVEL 7
LEVEL 8
The car crawled around a sharp hairpin bend and stopped.
“John?” Mrs Anderson squinted through the wind-screen. “Is it my imagination or what? I don’t think I’ve seen one car leave since we got in here . . .” Her words faded and slowed.
For the first time she looked about her, taking in the setting and layout of the car park. Cautiously she lowered the window and listened. They could hear nothing except the chug of the car “tickover” and the polite rush of the air exchange system.
A sign on a nearby pillar indicated a direction:
EXIT TO LEVEL 8: BANKS AND FINANCE COMPLEX, GOODS DEPOSIT STATION (GROUND FLOOR ONLY).
She followed the direction of the arrow. It pointed to a large pair of port-holed swing doors. With a sharp command to the children to stay in the car, Mrs Anderson jumped out.
She crossed the vehicle lane towards the doors. Suddenly, she stopped. Through the stare of the double O were queues of people waiting at lifts. A corridor to the left was filled with a blur of figures pushing shopping trolleys. She laughed at herself for being so silly.
Of course there were other people here.
She skipped back to the car and got in.
“What is it, Mummy?” asked Julie.
“Nothing sweetheart, Mummy had a peculiar thought, that’s all. It’s going to be crowded. All our new neighbours must be doing their shopping today.”
She reached into the glove compartment. There were still some chewing tablets there. John shared them out.
A voice in her head told her to stay strong. If you’re a Consumer Class citizen you take the rough with the smooth. She would have to get tougher.
They drove down another ramp.
Again Mrs Anderson brought the car to a halt.
She counted in her head.
LEVEL 8, that was where they had started, ground level. The Consumer Comfort Mall was a twelve-level shopping centre according to the corporation guide book. But four levels underground?
“Mum!” whined John.
With a low whistle at the thought of “underground cities” she shrugged her shoulders, engaged gear and moved off.
LEVEL 9
LEVEL 10.
This level was darker than the others, many of the lights did not seem to work. A wall had been re-treated, a shadow of letters showed that graffiti had been daubed on it at some time.
She chewed harder.
LEVEL 11
LEVEL 12.
The last floor. There was space.
With an enormous sigh of relief Mrs Anderson manoeuvred the car into one of the bays and switched off the ignition. She had not noticed how wet her hands were. She whispered a sentence of self-congratulation. To get round a multi-storey was one thing but to run through twelve floors and end up parked underground was another.
They had parked next to a gleaming 1999 Westland Coupé. John jumped out first and rushed over. His fingers rested lightly on the paintwork and then admiringly stroked the highly glossed bonnet. This car wouldn’t need his services. It was immaculate for the year, and regularly polished.
He would have almost cleaned it for nothing.
Almost.
He looked around him. Most of the cars seemed glossier on this level. The really dirty ones, he had noticed, had been on the top floor. It was almost as though they had been grouped according to their layers of dirt.
Their mother took Julie by the hand and helped her out of the car, then slammed the door shut. The thud bounced back from the other side of the bay. They paused for a moment in order to get their bearings. Level 12 was only half full.
Their footsteps rang out as they crossed to the exit.
They were about to see the attractions of the Mall.
As the double doors opened, an alarming blast of activity hit them.
“Good God,” was Mrs Anderson’s first reaction, under her breath.
The three of them stood together for a moment. They linked hands as if this might provide some protection against the chaos and commotion before them.
They had stepped out on to a wide balcony which circled an enormous indoor space. It was like overlooking an arena. The central floor was only a single flight of steps down. Around the balcony walkway was a continuous chain of shops. Every one had open access, without shop windows or doors. Customers spilled out on to the walkway. Neon signs flashed above each one, announcing their name and, usually, the availability of credit: Laser Light Ltd; Holograms to Order (easy terms). Antrobus Electronics; Home Help in a Microchip (all credits taken).
It was only when Mrs Anderson looked up that she became aware of the impossibility of the building. Further encircling balconies and galleries stretched upwards towards the dark and distant ceiling (if indeed there was a ceiling). It was like being at the bottom of a cylinder supported by a series of broad ribs at regular intervals. Each rib consisted of row upon row of shops and stores.
The noise was tremendous. Mrs Anderson could just detect the strain of an up-tempo melody, contradicting different layers of turmoil and din.
There were people everywhere.
Frantic chatter was mixed with the squeak and crash of the trolley baskets, which were being pushed urgently round in different directions.
Occasionally, two trolleys would meet in a head-on collision, then they would reverse and continue on their way like the dodgem cars the Andersons had seen in the fun-fair centres.
Mrs Anderson tightened her grip on the children’s hands. They stared around them, wide-eyed in wonder, saying nothing. A young woman pushing an overfilled trolley rushed past them. One of the wheels caught in a crack in the paving stone. She struggled to raise the frame out of the gap, wrestling for a moment with an awkward castor.
Mrs Anderson caught the look on her face. She turned cold. She had seen an expression of utter despair. The woman nervously brushed away the hair which fell in front of her face, and tears began to well in the corners of her eyes.
The trolley spilled over with unwrapped cartons. Julie caught sight of some items of interest: milk shake machines, android dolls, hologram cameras and personal video eye-sets.
“Let me help,” said Mrs Anderson, as she gently lifted the trolley. The woman stared back in astonishment. Somebody was helping her?
A large red box with a picture of a turbo food mixer fell out of the basket. The frightened look returned as the woman snatched the box up and replaced it in the trolley. She looked up again at Mrs Anderson, her lips mouthing something before she rushed away like a hunted rabbit.
Suddenly a hand caught Mrs Anderson’s arm. Another face stared up into hers, but this time the anxious expression alternated with a grin. There was a young man dressed in a bright blue sweatshirt. The words CONSUMER COMFORT CLUB were written on the chest.
“It’s almost ‘Hurry Up’ time,” he said, “and I know what it’s going to be.”
His clenched fists shook with excitement. He pushed his face towards hers as if to share a secret. Beads of sweat were breaking out across his forehead.
“It’ll be the talking towel rail. Don’t tell anyone.”
He raised a finger to his lips and made a “Shushhh”, then ran off pulling two half-filled trolleys behind him.
John had once heard a book in which everybody seemed to race around getting nowhere. His mother had even shown him a picture from a real book she had had as a child, of a large-eared White Rabbit looking at a pocket watch and mumbling, “Oh dear.” This was just like that.
Julie gently pulled her mother’s sleeve.
“Come on, sweetheart,” said Mrs Anderson, “this won’t take long.” John had gone very quiet indeed. Once, when he was much younger and they lived in Manchester, his father had take
n him to a meeting in Albert Square. That was before they had been advised to join the Toe-the-Line Association. The square had been packed, just like the inside of the Mall.
John had watched as all around him people’s faces had grown twisted and angry. A scuffle had broken out and the Peace Police had been summoned. John and his father had been carried through the Square by the natural surge of the crowd. It had moved as a single heaving body, breaking and re-shaping, until in anger it began to turn inwards and eat itself alive.
They had been lucky to escape. Most of the crowd had later been designated Riot Zone Class, the mindless disruptive sector.
It was strange. Those in the shopping centre were Consumer Category but their faces still reminded John of Albert Square. All that anxiety.
His mother led them to the edge of the balcony. The ground-floor arena was just below them, a teeming mosaic of bobbing heads and crashing wire trolleys.
A tall figure in a peaked cap and blue shirt had been watching them from the car-park doors. Large drop sun-shades hid his eyes, and part of his face, but it was still possible to make out an icy, detached expression.
He had been standing against the doors with his arms folded. Now he walked towards the trolley bay, which was a confused tangle of wire mesh and thick red handles. He shook one of the trolleys free from its clinging partners and advanced on Mrs Anderson and the children. With a grunt he pushed the trolley towards them.
“Er, no. Thank you,” she stuttered, “we only want—”
His fist crashed against the side of the basket and again he pushed the trolley at her. This time much harder. Her hands let go of the children’s as she managed to catch the front edge. A loose wire caught her thumb.
“Take it! Keep on shopping, damn you!”
The Best New Horror 1 Page 10