Shadows

by Conrad Jones

  It was too late to apologise. The damage was done. When he pulled a nightshift, he would call her repeatedly, shouting at her if she didn’t answer immediately. His accusations were cruel and relentless. In the end, he drove her away, forgiveness an easy concept but difficult to put into practice. When she left, he volunteered for UC work and embraced the loneliness completely. He reinvented himself as George, a homeless junkie and small time dealer. His information had brought down more dealers and pimps than he could remember. None of them ever suspected scruffy old George of ratting them out. George was away with the fairies, or so they thought.

  He crossed the desolate office space and spotted the door to the stairwell. It had been wedged open. The door was supposed to be padlocked, the key hidden beneath a floor tile. The tile would be marked with a square scratched into the corner. George tiptoed towards the doorway and identified the tile, slipping the blade of his penknife underneath the corner. He lifted the tile and looked beneath. The key was there. Whoever opened the door didn’t know about the key. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? It could be homeless people looking for a dry spot to sleep or it could have been metal scavengers looking to strip the upper floors. He relaxed a little and looked at the floor in front of the doorway. There was a clear pathway leading from the east side of the building to the door and beyond towards the stairwell. It was a pathway trampled by multiple sets of boots, probably scavengers looking for copper. He approached the doorway and checked the frame. It was intact apart from a set of screw holes where the padlock fastening had been. The holes were clean, wood coloured as if the screws had been removed recently. He stepped inside and checked the corridor to his right. The debris on the floor was undisturbed. It led away into the bowels of the building and into total darkness. The stairwell was in front of him. The dust on the stairs had been walked on, multiple times, by multiple sets of feet. George thought there was an imbalance in the number of prints going up and down but didn’t think it was important.

  George decided to proceed with caution. He pushed the door closed behind him and looked around. Picking up an empty cola bottle and an old lager tin, he stood them behind the door to alert him if anyone followed. The building was vast and empty but it was better to be safe than dead. He turned and headed for the stairwell, hugging the wall and peering up into the gloomy void as far as he could. Listening intently, he climbed the first three steps. Water was dripping from somewhere higher up. Dust and grit crunched beneath his feet. As he reached the first landing, he ducked and checked the next elevation. It was clear. He picked up the pace, confidence returning with each step. An old photocopier, the size of a small saloon car, lay tipped on its side, draped with a spider’s gossamer blanket. It blinked in the shafts of light as he navigated his way around it. A three legged chair was balanced on the first step of the next flight, gossamer webs strung between the legs. A giant house spider the width of his hand sat in the centre of the web, waiting and watching. Its body seemed to pulse as he neared. A shiver ran down his spine. Eight eyes twinkled in a shaft of light. They appeared to follow him.

  He skirted around it and took the stairs two at a time, always looking up for signs of danger. As he reached the third floor, he stopped dead in his tracks. The footprints were much more defined now. The dust on the floor was dry and thick and held its shape. He could clearly make out prints which led down the corridor. They didn’t go any higher up the stairs. Whoever had climbed the stairs had gone no further than the third floor. Was that a coincidence? He stopped and pondered his next move.

  George crouched down and listened. The sound of water dripping was relentless and seemed to echo through the building. He listened, his breath caught in his chest. Thump, thump, thump, the blood pulsed through his ears. His intuition told him something wasn’t right. It was rarely wrong, honed by his years on the streets. He couldn’t hear anything untoward yet he sensed the presence of others. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as if a cold breath had touched him. Something told him to turn and run. Run. Run now. He stopped and waited. Having slept rough in unsecure places, his hearing became acute, warning him of danger approaching even while he dozed, deep sleep a luxury that he seldom achieved. Someone was nearby. Someone bad. He could sense evil.

  George saw a sign on the wall, dust obscured the letters but he could just about make out the word ‘canteen’. He stayed low and close to the wall and moved to his right. The doorways that he passed were open. Some were blocked with rubble, others with doors hanging cracked and broken. The rooms behind them were dark and dank, the air rank with decay. The further he crept, the darker the corridor became. Even the light didn’t want to go there. Run, George, his mind whispered. Something bad is going to happen, you know it is. Run.

  He saw the gent’s toilets opposite him, the ladies next to it. The footprints turned left and disappeared through a set of double doors that were still intact. A sign above said it was the ‘staff canteen’. George stopped and listened at the door, ear to the wood. Water dripping, blood pulsing through his head, and something else. Something bad. Something familiar but warped. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Wheezing, sighing, rasping breath maybe? Animal or human? Weak and feeble, suffering or dying. Was it animal? He couldn’t tell. George decided that he wasn’t going through the doors. Follow your instincts, George. They have kept you alive so far. He couldn’t bring himself to walk through the doors. He would be walking in blind and he didn’t know what was on the other side. Something was there, he could sense that. Something bad. Very bad.

  It may have been paranoia but he wasn’t prepared to take the chance. He moved on, looking for another way into the canteen. The corridor was littered with bricks and air-conditioning tubing. Breeze blocks lay in the darkness, waiting to trip any intruders. The obstacles seemed to be guarding the building’s salvageable elements from thieves. George walked on, feeling his way carefully, not wanting to alert anyone to his presence by falling over. The dirt beneath his boots crunched, hardly audible yet deafening to him in the blackness. His stomach knotted at every sound.

  The corridor turned right, the darkness deepening. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust. Double fire doors blocked the path. He reached them and pushed with both hands. They rattled but wouldn’t give. He felt down and touched thick chains threaded through the handles. His fingers felt a rusty metal padlock. The way was blocked. Even the scavengers hadn’t penetrated the building this far. George sighed and turned to retrace his steps. He stumbled on a brick and lurched forward. His arms shot out to soften his fall and he scraped the palms of his hands painfully on a breeze block. He swore beneath his breath and froze to the spot. The noise echoed down the corridor. The sound of rats scurrying in the darkness came from the anterooms. He could hear their claws scratching at the floorboards as they scarpered for cover. A high pitched squeak came from the canteen, then a mewing sound like a cat with a fur ball in its throat. Animal or human? They had heard his fall, no doubt about it. Run, George. Run for your life.

  Muffled sounds of distress drifted along the corridor. Different sounds, different tones. There were several. They seemed to be coming in unison. George reached the canteen and placed his ear to the door again and listened. The muffled sounds of distress were louder, more urgent. He had a choice to make. Investigate or run. Run. Run away. George looked around and found a piece of metal on the floor. It wasn’t very substantial but it was better than nothing. He waited and listened again. The noises were quieting but were still there. He took a deep breath and pushed one of the doors open, stepping back as it swung closed again. He waited for whatever was inside to come out but nothing happened. The mewing sounds became louder. Some were high pitched, some deep and rasping.

  He pushed the door open again, peering inside as it closed slowly. He tried to see where the sound was coming from. Inside was dark, almost black. He picked up a brick and pushed the door again, ramming the brick against it to keep it open. The dim light from the corridor seeped in but didn’t
penetrate far enough for him to see. He repeated the process with the second door and hid behind the frame. No gunshot came, no ambush, only the sounds of rasping breath and muffled cries. He looked inside and saw silhouettes. The silhouettes of people. The noises became louder and more agitated. He could smell sweat, urine, and excrement, and something else. The metallic odour of blood.

  George stepped inside and put his back against the wall, sliding along it, he made his way around the room until he reached the windows. Thick drapes fashioned from tarpaulin had been nailed over them. The stench of damp and dust hung to the material. He grabbed one corner and pulled hard, ripping the dusty material easily. Light filtered in through the tear. He pulled again, harder this time and watery daylight flooded in. George looked around and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  15

  Braddick pulled the Evoque to a halt and looked at Mike Pilkington’s house. He raised his eyebrows and exchanged a surprise glance with Jo. It was a three bedroom detached on a new development, three storeys high. The curtains were closed downstairs but there were no lights on. A well-manicured lawn surrounded the property, split by a driveway that led to a double garage. The neighbouring properties were well kept with high end vehicles parked on the drives.

  “Nice place,” she muttered opening the passenger door. “Lottery win or rich parents?”

  “I hope so. Either that or he’s a whiz at poker.”

  “If I was that good at poker, I wouldn’t be working, would you?”

  “What and miss all this fun?” he grinned. “You can’t be serious.”

  They climbed out of the vehicle and walked up the gravel driveway. The front door was closed and locked, no signs of any disturbance. Braddick lifted the letterbox and peered through. The hallway was bright, painted white with sepia prints on the walls. The staircase was on the left, two doors opposite it. The kitchen was directly in front of him. He could see unopened mail on the microwave. All seemed quiet, normal and undisturbed. It was the image of modern suburbia, except Mike Pilkington didn’t have the wife, dog and two children. The nuclear family didn’t always fit hand in hand with the job. Some officers made it work but the divorce rate across the force was ridiculous. If potential husbands and wives were made aware of the figures, they would never consider marrying a police officer. Maybe Pilkington was gay? Braddick didn’t know and didn’t care about his sexuality but something wasn’t right.

  “Let’s go around the back,” Braddick said closing the flap and stepping back from the door. As he did so, a shadow moved at the top of the stairs. Then another. Shadows. He stepped aside quickly and pulled Jo with him. “Did you see that?”

  “I saw it,” she whispered, pulling her mobile from her fur lined jacket. “Now a crime has been committed. I’ll call an Armed Response Unit.”

  “You stay here and watch the front door. I’ll take the back,” Braddick said jogging around the corner.

  “Don’t go in there, Braddick!” Jo whispered after him. He didn’t hear her and she didn’t think that he would listen even he had.

  He skirted the double garage and followed a paved path towards the back garden. A high ornamental brick wall and wrought iron gate blocked his way. He took a deep breath and launched himself at the wall, stepping halfway up with one foot while reaching for the top with his hands. His fingers grasped rough brickwork and his feet kicked at the bricks, trying to gain purchase to push him up and over the wall. He threw his left arm over, gripping the top and locked his elbow. His chest impacted against the bricks, winding him and for a moment, he thought he was going to fall. He was about to let go when he felt hands beneath his boots, supporting him, pushing him upwards and over.

  “Armed units are on their way!” Jo called to him as he dropped on the other side. He landed heavily, twisting his left ankle and cursed beneath his breath. The garden was enclosed by a wooden fence, lined with conifer trees. A birdbath held pride of place in the centre of a striped lawn. He jogged to the corner of the house and peered around it. A large rectangular conservatory covered most of the rear elevation. He could see that the conservatory door was ajar. Braddick crept below the kitchen window. He reached the other side and looked inside. The kitchen was black and silver with an island at the centre, white marble tiles covered the floor. Muddy footprints led from the conservatory, across the tiles and into the living room. He kept low as he ran to the open conservatory door and crept inside. The footprints were still wet, literally minutes old. Braddick grimaced and swore when he realised there were two sets. That changed things dramatically. He paused for a second and weighed up the options. Confrontation was not an option. He was outnumbered and the chances were that they would be armed. The Armed Response Units would be on their way. That would tilt things in his favour. Until then, he just had to contain the situation. Keeping them inside was the key.

  He took another quick appraisal of the layout. The kitchen was to his left. He crept to the doorway and peered around the frame. It was empty. He tiptoed through it and made for the hallway. Pausing to think, he moved for the front door, keeping an eye on the doorways to his left and the stairs to his right. There were muffled voices and the sounds of things being dropped on the floor upstairs. He couldn’t decipher what they were saying but he was sure they were speaking Russian. He listened and guessed they were on the third floor. The front door was closed and locked with a Yale, which could be opened from the inside. He crept towards it and fastened the bolts top and bottom and then fastened the security chain. They could be undone just as easily but it would slow down their exit if they tried to leave through the front door. With the front door locked, he peered up the stairs and moved swiftly down the hallway and then stepped into the living room. The room was a long rectangular shape with a door that led into the conservatory at the far end. There were three units to his right, all their drawers had been opened and rifled through. The cupboards beneath them were in the same state, doors open and contents all over the floor. He slid along the wall to the conservatory and closed the door quietly. The key was in the door so he locked it and snapped the key off in the lock before heading back into the kitchen. Voices and heavy footsteps drifted to him from the top floor. He heard them coming down, their boots heavy on the stairs. There wasn’t time to run through the kitchen and conservatory into the garden. He would be trapped if he did. The ornamental wall had been too high the first time he had tried. Looking around in a panic, he closed the kitchen door and jammed a dining chair beneath the handle. The dining table was made from wood. It looked heavy. Braddick pushed it towards the door and tipped it up against the door before sprinting to the garage. He knew the chair wouldn’t hold for long. The garage door opened and he stepped inside, reaching for the light switch. He could hear the sound of approaching sirens and the screech of tyres. Footsteps clattered down the bottom set of stairs and angry voices came from the hallway. He heard the front door being rattled.

  Braddick looked around the garage. One bay held a quad bike, the other an old MGB. On his left was a well-equipped tool bench and he ran to it, searching for a weapon. He selected a rubber handled claw hammer and held it tightly in his right hand. The voices from the house had become hushed and panicked. He could hear them rattling the conservatory door, trying to escape through the back of the house. His Russian wasn’t good but he figured that they weren’t happy. Braddick knew that he had to get out before they tested the garage door. He had no way of locking it or blocking it from his side.

  Braddick looked along the walls near the adjoining door and saw a bank of switches. Two of them controlled the lights. None of them were labelled. He decided to press them all and see what happened. The sound of breaking glass from the house made him stop and listen. He flicked the switches. Raised voices came from inside and more voices came from outside. He could hear orders being shouted from the back garden. The sound of an electric motor kicked in and both garage doors began to open. More breaking glass came from inside. A cry of pain pierced the air. Tendri
ls of tear gas began to drift under the door. He reached for an oily rag and put it over his nose and mouth. The sound of men coughing and spluttering came from the hallway. The garage doors were half a metre open and rising slowly. He thought about crawling under them. He heard the handle of the connecting door rattle and saw it turning downwards. It would be open in a second. He looked at the distance that he needed to cover to crawl under the exterior doors. It was too far. He was caught like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car as the handle turned and the connecting door burst open.

  16

  George looked at the bizarre scene with his mouth open. He didn’t know what to do first. His brain couldn’t comprehend what his eyes were seeing. The sounds of distress had become deafening, making the situation more confusing. There was no volume button to turn off the sound of suffering. He was completely dumbfounded. Confusion was joined quickly by ice cold terror. Who had done this an why? More to the point, were they still here?

  His legs went weak. He leant against the window and thought about what to do. Their eyes begged for help but he couldn’t move. His muscles were frozen with fear. To rush in now was not an option, no matter how desperate they looked. He looked from face to face as his mind raced. Five pairs of eyes, badly battered and bruised, stared back at him, pleading for help. Tears ran down their cheeks. Their faces were black, blue and purple, split and swollen. Tape covered their lips. They were seated at a round table which was bolted to the canteen floor. Their hands were bound with thick gaffer tape and nylon rope. He could see stainless steel nails protruding from their skin, glinting in the light, the shafts encrusted with blood. Someone had bound them, beaten them and then nailed their arms to the table. That was a task that one man couldn’t complete alone. It would take many men. He thought about the footsteps coming up the stairs. Multiple prints had gone up but not so many went down. This explained it.