by Luke Walker
Horror rose in his throat and he hissed. Stu slid forward, slapped a hand over his mouth and swayed.
Wherever Mick looked, he saw what he’d mistaken for bits of cushions were bits of body. A foot, something long and sausage-like, and grey pieces of meat which could only be pieces of skin were dotted around the floor of the bar with no obvious care or pattern.
‘It’s a pantry, isn’t it?’ he whispered and the vomit rose before he could stop it.
He let it splatter beside him, felt someone’s hands rubbing his back and thought of running past the body parts earlier.
He vomited again, closed his eyes and let it fall out of him.
‘Finished?’
It was Will rubbing his back.
Mick tried to speak but nothing came apart from a weak croak. He wiped his mouth, stood straight and gazed at the horrors in the murky light.
‘We’re in a nest, aren’t we? This is where they keep their food.’
‘Who the fuck are they?’ Will whispered.
‘I don’t care. Let’s just go. Right now. okay?’ Karen said.
They moved together and Mick realised the change in light was down to a simple lack of cloud. Through the long row of wrecked windows at the front of the building, the moon was clearly visible. Stars gleamed in a sky perfect for a winter night.
He hugged himself, shivering, and looked all around, eyes not resting on any one object. The ground floor appeared even more horrendous than it had before they’d run. The bar had been smashed apart at some point; the window behind the bar which showed a little of the kitchen was nothing but a hole of jagged glass, and stains covered the floor. Mick didn’t want to look at the stains.
‘Out,’ he croaked. ‘Outside.’
They crossed to the doors; Mick paused and thought of Andy.
You better be all right, Pateman, you fucker.
He opened the pub doors.
Twenty Seven
The phone rang.
Kirsty woke instantly, both hands gripping the arms of the chair. A thin slice of morning light broke through the gap between the curtains.
The phone was ringing.
Stu.
She lunged upright and crossed the floor to the sofa. The phone was on the arm as it had been since last night, sitting there, silent and mocking her.
She grabbed it, the ringing fell silent and she threw up a blurred image of a prayer that was simply her husband’s name.
‘Stu?’ she said and her fingernails dug into her palms.
‘No, sorry.’ It was a man’s voice but not Stu’s. It was a million miles from Stu. ‘My name’s Phil. I was hoping to speak to Stuart Brennan.’
‘I’m his wife,’ Kirsty said. The reply was automatic. It was one she’d given countless times to the gas company or Sky or anyone else who phoned when Stu was out. The big difference, her mind said with horrible cheerfulness, was that all those times, she’d known where the hell Stu was.
‘He’s not in?’
She swallowed. Her throat clicked. ‘No, not right now.’
‘Do you know when he’ll be home?’
Abrupt anger gave her strength. She pushed the anger back far enough so only the touch of it emerged in her voice. ‘Sorry, who did you say you were?’
Another pause and when he replied, he sounded a little more formal.
‘Phil Paulson. I’m sort of an old friend of Stuart’s and I was hoping to speak to him.’
Kirsty’s restless gaze fell on the clock. ‘You always call your old friends at six in the morning?’ she said.
‘I …’
‘You’re a liar.’ She couldn’t stop the tremor in her voice. ‘Nobody who knows my husband calls him Stuart.’
Her fingers moved to disconnect the call and he spoke again in a different tone. She recognised the panic in his voice and responded to it with her own panic.
‘Okay, I don’t know Stu. Well, I did sort of years ago. He was friends with a couple of other people. Karen Miller. Andy something. And Mick Harris. They were friends with Stu. And another guy called Will …something. I can’t remember his last name.’
‘Elton,’ Kirsty said.
Much of the colour in the room had bled out of it. She sat, held the arm of the sofa with a fierce grip and wished for the rolling in her stomach to die.
‘Will Elton, that’s right. I knew them years ago. They were …’
He sighed and tears filled the soft sound. All at once, Kirsty knew what was coming next. Her mind flashed back to the night before, Stu at the door, hands in his pocket and telling her something she couldn’t believe because it had no part in their lives, of Lucy, work, their mates and anything real.
‘They were friends with my sister,’ Phil said. ‘Geri Paulson.’
***
The clock again. Quarter past six. Lucy would wake up any minute. Then breakfast, coffee, a load of washing on while Stu got up, got ready for work and …
And that wasn’t how today was going to be.
‘He’s out. Has been since last night,’ Kirsty said.
‘You don’t know where he is?’
‘He went out to meet his friends. Karen, Will, Mick and Andy. He hasn’t seen them in ages but they’re all here so they went out for a drink.’
‘Why haven’t they seen each other in ages?’
The question she’d never put in such blunt words to her husband; the question she’d asked herself, always with the same answer.
Geri killed herself and she killed their friendship.
‘They all moved away. It’s been a long time.’
How thin that sounded. She almost laughed.
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said and some bitter note in his words froze her urge to laugh.
‘So, what has this got to do with Stu?’ she said.
‘I’m not sure. Has he been normal lately?’
He said it as if he might have said does he still work in that record shop? Any horrible weight in the question was surely in her mind.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry. Stupid way to put it. It’s just …well, I know how odd this will sound, believe me I know. You’re probably the tenth or eleventh person I’ve phoned. Although you’re the only one who hasn’t hung up.’
He fell silent and she waited.
‘My sister Geri, she’s been dead for best part of ten years,’ he said.
‘I know. Stu told me about her.’
‘Has he mentioned her lately?’
A burst of heat rose from her breasts just as cold flowed downwards. Her hand shook on the arm of the sofa. ‘Why?’ she murmured.
‘Please. It’s important.’
She couldn’t lie. Not now. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘I really need to speak to Stu.’
The tears dropped without warning. She choked them back, furious with herself and spoke over him.
‘You can’t. He went out last night and I haven’t heard anything from him. I can’t get him on his phone, I can’t get the others and I’m about three fucking seconds away from calling the police so you tell me what the fuck this is about.’
Her voice rose in the last few words; she slammed a hand over her mouth and waited for Lucy’s cries. None came and she shut her eyes for a moment.
‘You tell me what’s going on,’ she whispered.
He studied the ground, perhaps embarrassed by her shouting.
‘I’ve seen her. I’ve seen Geri.’
Kirsty opened her mouth and discovered she had literally no idea what to say. She closed her mouth and waited.
‘I know how it sounds. Either like I’m insane or taking the piss. I wish I was.’ He sighed loud enough for her to wince and pull the phone away from her ear for a moment.
‘She’s been in my house, at work and anywhere else she wants to appear. She’s just there like …I don’t know.’ He sighed again but with barely any force. It was as if all his breath had escaped during the last few seconds. ‘Do you believe me?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would Stu believe me?’
Stu at the door last night, turning back to her and telling her he wouldn’t be too late. Stu, smiling and telling her he loved her.
Kirsty placed a trembling hand over her eyes.
‘Maybe,’ she said.
Phil hesitated before speaking again. The moment span out and Kirsty heard nothing at all on the line.
‘Stu’s seen her as well, hasn’t he?’ Phil said.
Kirsty couldn’t do anything but weep.
Twenty Eight
Karen stared at Bishop’s Gate and all her words dried up.
The moonlight shone almost as brightly as sunshine to expose the road and buildings. Not one window on the other side of the road was whole. Not one door hung straight. Her mind cross referenced the street with images of New York in the minutes and hours after 9/11, the surreal sight of streets and roads choked with debris. Even as she made that connection, a shrill voice told her that didn’t make sense. This was Dalry, for Christ’s sake. Fucking Dalry. What the hell did explosions and broken windows have to do with Dalry?
‘We should get off the street,’ Will said.
‘What?’ Mick said. He sounded drugged.
‘This is just about the roughest place I’ve ever seen.’ Will spoke quickly as Karen knew he did when nervous or angry.
‘Worse than Wolverhampton?’ Stu muttered and Mick let out a girlish laugh.
‘Andy,’ Karen said in as much an effort to focus the others as to focus herself. The word helped to block out the sights of the damaged buildings, the sense of the pub looming over her and the mental pictures of the horror on the second floor.
‘We have to find Andy,’ she said. ‘I don’t care about anything else.’
‘I’ve been thinking. He told us about that flat, remember? When we were in the pub, he …’
Will stopped and let out a breath that shook with nerves and close tears.
‘He told us about the flat he lived in as a kid, didn’t he? It makes sense if he’s there. I mean, we all woke up or appeared or whatever the hell it was in our homes. What were our homes, I mean.’
‘I didn’t,’ Karen said and saw a look on Will’s face. She recognised it: Will attempting to think his way around a problem rather than through it. The look had only come before during difficult work or with an approaching deadline.
‘So, most of us did,’ he said. ‘I think Andy is in his old flat. St Mary’s Court.’
‘It’s got to be a fifteen minute walk,’ Mick said.
‘We could get the bus,’ Stu muttered and Karen wanted to shout at him, to hit him. What the hell place did jokes have here? She readied herself to speak and paused.
Stu was being Stu. There’d been no humour in any of his comments, just a weak confusion and a need to make sense of things. He glanced at her, and she didn’t hide her appraisal.
‘I don’t think they’re running today,’ she whispered.
Will eyed Mick. ‘How’s your bat, fatboy?’ he said.
Mick swung it without much enthusiasm and Karen immediately loathed the whisper it made in the air.
They moved together, heading down Bishop’s Gate to where it met Long Gate. Karen attempted to look in all directions at once and although she saw no movement behind the broken windows and heard no voices in the chill air, she was utterly sure of one thing.
They weren’t alone.
Twenty Nine
Keeping her grip on Lucy tight, Kirsty lifted her bag, mouth trembling with the effort, and rang the doorbell again.
The door opened a moment later and Rich reached for Lucy or the bag. She was too tired to decide which. She handed him the bag and he held it beside his leg.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied and entered their house. He let her pass and stood against the wall, awkwardly holding her bag. She briefly wondered what he made of her coming to their home at twenty past seven in the morning, of the mad conversation she’d had with Jo. Unreality touched her and she shook it off. There wasn’t time to pretend this wasn’t happening.
Jo appeared at the top of the stairs, holding Susan. She descended quickly, passed Susan to Rich and embraced Kirsty.
‘Nothing?’ she said and Kirsty shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
They went through to the living room; Rich placed the babies in a playpen and Kirsty fell on to the sofa. She leaned forward, hugging herself.
‘I keep thinking I should call the police,’ she said. ‘I mean, this is what you do, isn’t it? When someone goes missing, you call the police.’
‘He hasn’t necessarily gone missing,’ Rich muttered and Kirsty’s anger rose fast.
‘What the hell else would you call it?’ she said and he held up a placating hand.
‘I’m saying it’s not like this is normal, is it? He’s out with a load of mates and you can’t get hold of them either. Then you get a call from some guy who’s loosely connected to Stu and his mates’ past. You tell the police all that and they aren’t automatically going to be looking for Stu like they would for a missing person.’
Her anger fell away, leaving her nauseous and tired. ‘I know.’
He squatted beside the playpen and slid his fingers through. The babies gripped them.
‘I’m calling in sick so I can come with you,’ he said.
She shook her head and Jo spoke.
‘It’s not a good idea to go alone. You don’t know anything about this guy.’
‘It’s all right.’ Kirsty watched her daughter hold Rich’s fingers and pictured leaving her here. The idea was ghastly.
‘I’m meeting him in Memorial Square so you couldn’t come, anyway. It’s too close to your shop. I told him I’d meet him there, talk to him about his sister and whatever the hell that means about Stu. Then I’m going to the police.’
‘I still don’t like it,’ Jo said.
‘It’s broad daylight; the Square’s about as public as you can get. Even if he is, you know, a nut, he can’t do anything there.’
She watched her friends share a silent look. Agreement passed between them.
‘Okay, but only as long as you phone me when you get there and when he turns up,’ Jo said.
‘I will.’ Kirsty watched her daughter again. Both the girls were playing with a blanket, Rich’s fingers forgotten.
‘You think I should call the police, don’t you?’ she said and watched Rich and Jo share another glance.
‘I don’t know. I think someone has to be missing or whatever you want to call it for twenty-four hours. Plus they might just say he’s out with his mates so they’re going to be okay.’ Jo watched the babies. ‘Have you thought about calling Jodie?’
‘Yeah, but I figured if she’d heard from Mick, he or she would have called me. I can’t tell her I can’t get hold of any of them. Not yet.’ Kirsty rubbed at her eyes. They ached with tiredness. ‘I told this Phil he’s got a couple of minutes. If what he tells me doesn’t make sense …’
‘Which it doesn’t,’ Rich said.
‘I know, but I have to let him talk. I’ll give him a couple of minutes and then call the police to report Stu missing.’
She hadn’t known she was going to state it outright in such bald terms. The words were full of fear in her mouth.
She pulled a scrap of paper from a pocket.
‘This is his number.’ She handed the paper to Jo. ‘I told him I’d be giving it to you so even if he is a weirdo, he knows you have his number.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rich said and smiled in an easy way. ‘If he’s a weirdo, me and Stu will just burn his house down.’
She wanted to return his smile but couldn’t.
In the playpen, the babies gurgled at one another.
Thirty
Kirsty checked her watch. Twenty past eight. The Square wasn’t as busy as she would have liked. Most of the shops around it wouldn’t open for another forty minutes or so w
hich meant a lack of the public. She counted ten people in the Square: two street cleaners, a couple of teenage kids, one guy and his dog and others passing through the Square. She stood in the shadow of NatWest, resting against the cool stone of the building. Directly opposite, Memorial Hall was empty. She could see into the open plan floor of the old building and wondered when she’d last really paid any attention to it or walked up the few steps to stand where people had stood a hundred and fifty years before. Easily fifteen years ago. Maybe more. A New Year’s Eve, perhaps; the square full of celebrating people, of bitter cold and dirty snow.
She shook the thoughts off. She had to focus, keep her eyes open for Phil Paulson. A tall guy, he’d said. Blonde hair, going a bit thin. He’d be dressed in a black jacket and he’d carry a newspaper in his right hand so she could recognise him. He hadn’t asked her what she looked like and he’d understand if she changed her mind, he was asking a lot, after all, but he hoped she’d be there and they could talk.
Nobody in the Hall. The shops were still shut. Kirsty studied the square for a moment and focused on a spot of ground between the edge of the Hall and the shopping centre. It was probably the only place she wouldn’t be seen from the record shop. There was enough to think about without wondering if Stu’s colleagues could see her with a man who wasn’t Stu.
A few people exited the shopping centre. None wore a black jacket. Kirsty wanted to check her watch and resisted the urge to do so.
Talk to him for a few minutes, then call the police. Stu’s missing. It doesn’t matter what this guy says about his dead sister. Stu’s missing. Give this guy five minutes and leave it at that.
Time passed in painfully slow trickles. She watched more people pass through the square and watched her shadow slide over the paving slabs when the sun drifted in and out of clouds.
‘Nice day for it,’ she whispered and hugged herself. August didn’t seem that far behind despite the calendar. Edging to late October and still pretty mild.
She relented and checked her watch. Twenty to nine. He was ten minutes late. She leaned against the wall of the bank again and tried not to think of walking away, cutting through the shopping centre and getting back to the multi-storey, getting back to her car and phoning the police.