Dark Waters

by G. R. Halliday

  ‘It’s OK, you’re safe,’ she whispered. Breathing in the slightly mossy smell of the forest that clung to the girl’s hair. She was freezing and seemed to weigh nothing. Monica held her tight, anticipating a screaming struggle, but the girl went limp.

  She opened the back door, slid the child onto the seat and bundled a tartan travel rug over her before climbing into the driver’s seat herself.

  Crawford’s eyes mirrored her own thoughts: What the fuck? He was talking on the phone. ‘I sent the coordinates before …’

  Monica put the heating up high and turned to look properly at the little girl in the back. She was pretty, wearing a dirty old sweatshirt with FRANCE 1998 printed on it in block capitals with a Scottish saltire background. Grubby hands folded in her lap, smears of grime across her cheeks. Monica resisted a motherly urge to dig in the glove compartment and start cleaning the girl’s face with a wet wipe. Instead she smiled. ‘What are you doing out here? Are your mummy or daddy nearby?’

  The girl didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘My name’s Monica. This is Crawford. Do you live near here?’

  ‘You’re big,’ the girl whispered, finally. Still staring straight ahead and refusing all eye contact. ‘You’d have a lot of bones to make soup with.’

  Monica leaned in to the girl, convinced that she’d misheard. ‘What—’

  ‘Are you here to collect Annabelle?’ the girl said, staring down at her small hands. Monica froze. ‘She’s not very well, and we’ve been looking after her. She’s with my uncle and Marcus, the weird-looking one. Would you like me to show you where they are?’

  CHAPTER 85

  When Annabelle’s eyes flicked open the Doctor was crouched into a squat. Stock-still, watching her from thirty feet away. So close that she could see the dark stains on his lab coat. Holding the stubby saw. For some reason he’d removed his surgical mask, and he was smiling at her.

  Annabelle began to hyperventilate. His crooked smile widened at the sound of her gasps. His dark grey eyes locked on to hers. She understood then that he was enjoying himself. He wanted to take his time.

  Slowly she reached for the crutches, never taking her eyes from his. Somehow she managed to fit them back onto her arms. Stood up on her remaining foot, turned and began to make her way down towards the darkness that lay at the end of the tunnel.

  She hobbled along for what seemed like an age, always expecting the Doctor’s hand to land on her shoulder, to pull her to the ground and begin cutting her there and then. Finally she couldn’t bear it and had to glance back. There was no sign of him, and she noticed that the lights on the wall were more widely spaced and the tunnel had levelled off, was almost flat now. He must still be up there, waiting. He wants you to go into the tunnels. He wants to catch you down there like Grandad Slate caught those people. Annabelle’s hand went to the pocket of her tracksuit bottoms, remembering Scott’s knife for the first time. It was still there. Maybe she could stab the Doctor in the narrow tunnels? Maybe there was a chance? Before she could expand on the thought a noise started. Up the tunnel. A slapping sound. His footsteps on the tarmac were loud again. He wanted her to know he was coming. He wanted her to play his game.

  CHAPTER 86

  Monica couldn’t quite believe what the kid had just said. Offering to take them to Annabelle?!

  ‘Where are they?’ Monica said slowly. The girl looked back at her for a second and seemed about to speak, but then she was moving. She lunged for the door handle. In a second it was open and the girl was running. Monica was quickly out of the car herself, but the child had cut off into the trees and was immediately lost in the dark undergrowth.

  Monica had forgotten the child lock. Fucking hell! How could you be so stupid?

  ‘Fisher has spoken to Niall Souter. The armed response unit’s on its way,’ Crawford said softly. He was standing beside her now, staring into the forest.

  ‘If she gets to Annabelle first they might kill her. How long?’ she asked, already knowing the answer: Too long.

  ‘As fast as possible, but it’ll be at least thirty minutes.’

  Monica swore again.

  ‘Where could …’ She glanced around as she was speaking and caught the edge of a shape through the trees. She wiped a hand over her face and moved further up the track. It was a building. Right beside the dam, so close that the glare of the floodlights on the road above made it difficult to see. ‘I think we’ve found the Slates.’

  Without speaking they began to move towards it, hugging the cover of the trees. As they drew closer they could better make out the building. It was an architectural mess, built in ramshackle sections from a variety of materials. At least three storeys high, heaped up like it might collapse at any minute.

  A fresh thrill of horror ran down Monica’s neck when she spotted the flag. Hanging limp above the highest window, a yellow-and-red lion rampant. Annabelle had mentioned such a flag in her desperate text message to Fisher.

  ‘She’s here, I’m sure of it,’ Monica whispered to Crawford.

  He nodded, the sound of his breathing close by her side as they moved closer still. There was no sign of the little girl. The place was eerily quiet. Monica could see now that the far end of the house actually butted up against the side of the dam like a cancerous growth.

  ‘Do you think we should split up?’ Crawford’s hesitant whisper broke through her thoughts. ‘Cover more ground?’

  ‘No. We definitely shouldn’t.’ A light glowed from one of the windows at the very top of the house. She checked around again. It was unclear which entrance to the house was their best bet. There were at least four possibilities to choose from, each door looking like it had been salvaged from a rubbish dump. A cast-iron sign hung above one of them: SLATES.

  ‘Come on.’

  They crossed the few feet of bare ground from the track to the door beneath the sign. Monica pushed on it and it swung open.

  ‘Here.’ Crawford passed the torch he’d taken from the boot of the car to Monica. She clicked it on. The light picked out a corridor that was almost impassable, stacked with an assortment of objects. Heaps of old books and magazines, cardboard and wooden boxes, car parts, even an old fridge freezer half buried among the mess. The place stank of mould and the ammonia of cat’s piss. At the end of the corridor there was a staircase. Monica moved carefully towards it. From deeper in the house she heard music. After a moment she realised that, of all things, it was ‘Agadoo’ by Black Lace.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Get the disco started,’ Crawford muttered, trying for some dark bravado.

  Monica forced a smile and stepped closer to the staircase, glanced down at the stained carpet, her feet sticking to it every time she planted a shoe, the smells of fried meat and cigarette smoke rising from it. There was a glow at the top of the stairs. Monica moved towards it, glancing back to check that Crawford was still behind her. The music was louder as she reached the first-floor landing. Half expecting an ambush, the sound of gunfire at any moment. And then Lucy would be … what? An orphan? Just as good as. Monica forced the thought away into a deep dark hole. Whatever the personal cost, she couldn’t abandon Annabelle. Instead she needlessly checked she was still wearing her protective vest and felt behind her to check Crawford had his on too.

  She could hear the ridiculous lyrics now – about pushing pineapples, shaking trees. They lent an utterly surreal atmosphere to the situation. A strange image from Top of The Pops flashed into her head. Gary Glitter and Jimmy Savile on stage, in glittery outfits. She shook her head and squeezed past a load of tea chests stacked down one side of the landing.

  ‘You think the kid ran up here?’

  Monica shook her head: I don’t know. She kept on though, up the next flight of stairs. These were narrower and ended at a door. She could see random coloured lights flashing from under it. Without giving herself a chance to think, she moved quickly up the remaining steps to the door and grabbed for the handle.

  CHAPTER 8
7

  Annabelle kept moving. The idea that the Doctor was enjoying her terror, was somehow feeding off it, was horrific, but if all those tunnels Marcus had told her about really existed, maybe she could hide from him? Maybe she could even escape and get someone to help Scott?

  In her panic she didn’t realise at first that the tarmac beneath her foot had been replaced by roughly hewn rock. The ceiling was much lower too, so low she could have stretched to touch it. And up ahead tunnels branched off the main route. Dark entrances cut in the rock. Marcus hadn’t just been trying to frighten her; these were the beginnings of the old passages. She could see that further down the line of electric lights finally ran out. Beyond that there was only blackness.

  Down here the tunnel seemed drier, and so silent. As if she could feel all the weight of the mountains above, pushing her down. Deep underground where any kind of thing could be hiding. Waiting for decades to whisper into the ear of someone. Lost and alone in such a lonely place.

  Then she heard the sound of feet again. The Doctor, much closer now. She hesitated for a moment then forced herself to step past the very last of the electric lights into the darkness. She fumbled with the torch. The light was swallowed in the dark, barely illuminating more than a couple of feet in front of her, but she could see the tunnel had become narrower and lower. She could have touched both walls at the same time now and the roof was only inches above her head. She felt the ache in her arms from the crutches, the pain in her wounded leg finally registering even through the adrenaline. In the faint light from the torch she could see a split in the passageway. Both tunnels seemed of equal size. Which to take?

  This is the labyrinth. This is where Grandad Slate ate those men. An impulse told her to go left. She heard the Doctor’s heavy feet echo off the rock behind her. She knew he was enjoying every moment of this slow chase. She bit her tongue and chose the right-hand tunnel.

  CHAPTER 88

  Monica turned the handle and pushed the door. It scraped across carpet. She held her breath and stepped into the room. It was long and narrow. Disco lights flashed from the ceiling, the music blared. The people were dark shapes against the flashing lights. They seemed completely unaware of her presence. Without turning her head Monica felt at the side of the door. Her fingers settled on a switch and she flicked the light on.

  Four people turned towards her simultaneously. Startled by the interruption. She glanced between them. Her eyes settled on the familiar face of Karen Sinclair first. The same anachronistic Princess Diana hairstyle as when they’d interviewed her just days before. She was sitting on an armchair among piles of tattered fabrics. Beside her, face pushed into Karen’s side, was the little girl. In the middle of the floor, staring dumbly at Monica, was a woman. It was hard to gauge her age, but Monica guessed she was in her early sixties. She had grey hair and was wearing a plaid skirt and a stained beige cardigan. Behind her was a man. An inch or two shorter than Monica but wider, with a heavy stomach sagging over the top of a blue-and-red kilt. The kilt was stained with splashes of filth down the front, likewise his red tracksuit top. Beside him was a large stereo system with a mountain of records and CDs heaped around it.

  The older of the women stared at Monica, eyes narrowed. Finally she seemed to make a decision and turned to the man, shouting something. His wide face was splattered with acne and he wore a gormless expression. Monica could see flecks of white spittle at the corners of his mouth. Finally he seemed to understand because he reached out a hand, and mercifully the music stopped.

  The woman glared at Monica, then her thin lips turned up in a grin. Monica stared back but didn’t smile.

  ‘Who’ll you be then?’ the woman asked.

  Monica glanced around the room for a second time, checking for weapons. The family seemed to be unarmed though and genuinely surprised by the appearance of two visitors.

  ‘I’m here for Annabelle.’ She watched the woman’s face for cracks in that smiling facade.

  ‘Annabelle,’ the woman repeated dumbly. Then she started to laugh. ‘It won’t be hard to find her, will it, Lily?’ She turned to the little girl, who was now watching Monica suspiciously. ‘Lily, show this lady where Annabelle is.’ The girl didn’t move. ‘Come on, show her.’ There was a malicious edge to her voice now.

  Monica’s eyes flickered between them. ‘You know where Annabelle Whittaker is?’

  The girl pushed her face into Karen’s side.

  ‘Come on, tell the lady,’ the woman repeated. The little girl shook her head. ‘Not got anything to say, have you?’

  The woman stepped towards Monica. Up close there were dark grey circles under her cold eyes. Her nose was large and sharp as a knife, hair hanging around her face in scraggly bunches.

  ‘Lily has problems with her wee heedie, she likes to make up wee stories to herself. Don’t you, Lily?’ The woman turned to the child, then back to Monica. ‘She’s been talking about poor Annabelle since we heard about her being missing on the radio.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what’s your name?’ Monica asked, to buy a moment to think as much as anything.

  ‘Slate,’ the woman said. ‘Marjory Slate, but everyone calls me Granny. And I must say, I’m surprised to see you and your wee man here.’ She nodded up at Monica then over to Crawford. ‘Up here at this time of the night. You maybe shouldn’t have come here. Not without getting some permission. It’s not always a safe place.’

  ‘Why not?’ Monica said as the woman stared straight up at her.

  ‘Oh, there are things that happen out in that glen. Tinks who come in and steal things. Strange lights sometimes. We seal the road over at nights. It’s a private road, you see. It’s a wonder you made it up here.’ The woman smiled and ran her thick grey tongue quickly over yellowing teeth. ‘And we’ve more family coming over soon.’

  CHAPTER 89

  The passageway became narrower and narrower. Annabelle moved along as quickly as she could. Panic rising. She was sure she could hear the Doctor’s breathing growing nearer. The smells of blood and oil running ahead of him like a fog. Her shoulder hit the rock wall and knocked her off balance. Instinctively she tried again to steady herself with her missing foot and toppled over. This time her head met the stone of the tunnel wall. A bright light flashed behind her eyes. Pins and needles ran all the way down her neck to her chest. She tried to get back up, but the floor seemed to tilt away at a steep angle. She slumped forward, her leg and arms tangled with the crutches.

  The Doctor’s slow slapping footsteps filled the tunnel. Desperately Annabelle kicked the crutches away and dragged herself on. The torch bounced around her neck, sending yellow beams dancing against the walls.

  Her shoulders brushed either side of the tunnel as she crawled. There was a throbbing heat at the side of her head, something running down her face. She realised it was blood and for a second she wondered how bad the injury was. As if it matters. He’s going to catch you. Then he’s going to cut you up.

  She had no choice but to keep moving. The dust from the floor was in her mouth and nose, in her eyes, the torch as good as useless now as she crawled awkwardly on her belly.

  Annabelle felt fingers close loosely around her ankle. She screamed and kicked free. A strange sound followed her down the tunnel. It took her a moment to realise that it was laughter. He was enjoying this. Every moment of it. Through the waves of terror she forced herself on. Focusing on each movement of her hands, each time her leg slid forward. She only realised how tight the tunnel had become when she felt the walls on both sides. Touching her shoulders. Her body beginning to fill the narrow space, trapping her. Somehow she understood she needed to tilt her shoulders to the side. More sideways than straight ahead now. The tunnel walls were so close on either side of her face that she could taste the dry rock. She could hear her own heaving breath, the scrabbling sound as he followed.

  ‘Stop it!’ Annabelle screamed. ‘Leave me alone!’

  Her head hit the roof. The tunnel was more like a pipe now. Low a
nd narrow. She screamed again. Wedged in that deep dark hole. So tight she couldn’t move. The horror of the place, crushed and hyperventilating. Buried alive under mountains.

  CHAPTER 90

  Marjory Slate’s eyes were cold. Monica repeated the woman’s words back to her. ‘You’ve got more family coming?’

  ‘They’ll be along soon. Don’t worry about that.’

  Monica cleared her throat, willing Niall Souter and his armed response team to arrive. ‘We’re going to need to have a look around. In case you hadn’t worked it out for yourself, we’re police.’ She pulled her warrant card from her pocket and held it out.

  Slate ignored the ID and continued to stare at Monica. ‘There’s no police up here,’ she said finally with a crooked smile. ‘This is private land.’ She edged a little closer to Monica. ‘And I don’t think you should be up here.’ Her eyes flickered to Crawford and back. ‘I don’t think either of you should be up here.’

  For long moments their eyes stayed locked together. The room was silent, the coloured lights flickered over the carpeted floor, over the walls. Monica could hear the man’s heavy breathing from beside the stereo.

  Slowly Marjory Slate turned round to the man. ‘I think these two—’

  A distant noise stopped her. From far down the valley, the sound of a siren.

  CHAPTER 91

  Annabelle tried again to wriggle forward, but her shoulder was now locked up tight against the rock. She stretched her arms out ahead of her to try and squeeze through. She was able to move forward by a few inches. Her face scraped the dry rock, hot blood from her head wound ran down her neck. She pushed again, then tried to bring her arms back past her head to lever herself forward, but they were jammed, stuck out ahead of her. Lodged tight with no way forward or back. Fresh panic juddered over her in claustrophobic waves. She tried to scream, but her diaphragm was compressed, and the sound came out as a gasp. Instinctively she tried to stand, felt her head and back pressed tight against the rock. Her chest could barely expand as she panted in terror, her mind threatening to break apart.