by M. P. Wright
Fowler cowered at my side, looking like something had just gone and tore the very life force out of his soul. “Dear God above . . . We’re both dead.”
“Dead? What crap you talkin’ ’bout now, man?”
“I’m talking about the devil incarnate, Mr Ellington, right here with us, standing at the bar in the very next room.” The doc sank down even further and for a moment I thought he was about to go hide under the table. I grabbed his collar and pulled him up.
“Fowler, what the hell you on? You bin drinkin’ too much o’ your own surgical spirits, brother. Listen to what you sayin’. It don’t make no sense. Now come on, what’s this ‘truth’ that Ida Stephens needs to hear from you?”
“We need to leave now.”
“Doc, we ain’t going anywhere till we’re finished.”
“We will be finished, Mr Ellington, if you don’t listen to what I’m saying. We have to go. We only have a few minutes.He won’t be on his own, he never is.”
“Say what? Who won’t be on his own?”
“Paxton, his name is Paxton.”
“And this man is the devil you just bin ramblin’ on ’bout, yeah?”
“Yes . . . Look, Mr Ellington, I beg you, just get me out of here now, please. I’ll tell you everything you need to know once we’re safe, but we must leave this very minute.”
I stared at Fowler suspiciously for a moment. The fear in his eyes was as real as I’d seen in any man. Damning myself under my breath as I did, I slowly rose up out of my seat and caught sight of a muscular-looking guy standing with his back to me at the bar. I looked back down at the doc, angrily pointing my finger into his already terrified face.
“Man, I swear if I find out you bin jerkin’ my chain ’bout all this, you gonna wish the devil was hangin’ off your back instead o’ havin’ me in ya face again. Now, come on, shift your bony ass off that pew and follow me.”
I held onto Doc Fowler’s coat sleeve and dragged him behind me out of the snug towards the rear entrance of the pub. As I did, I snatched a fleeting glance towards a big white guy at the bar, who was now slowly heading towards us, his right hand moving towards the inside of his leather jacket. I yanked at the old man’s arm to speed him up.
“We’ve been made . . . This way.” I tightened my grip on Fowler’s arm as we hurried down the small corridor and through the glass-etched door onto Church Lane. I kept moving along the dimly lit pavement and turned the corner out into the open road.
“Where are you taking me?” Fowler rasped at me breathlessly.
“Now ain’t the time to be asking dumb questions, just get a sprint on, will ya? It looks like the devil on our coat-tail’s packing some firepower. You got some real choice friends, doc.”
Fowler dug his heels in, bringing me to a standstill in the street like some pig-headed mule that’d had enough of its toil. “He’s no friend of mine. What did I tell you? It’s the devil, he’s come for me.”
“Shut your mout’, old man, and move it, or so help me I’ll leave your sorry butt to Lucifer back there.” I bullied him along, grabbing him by his collar and heaving him in front of me towards where I’d parked my car. I took the key out of my jacket pocket as we approached the Cortina, jabbed it quickly into the lock and got both my and the rear passenger door open for the sluggish doctor to get in. I looked back into the shadows towards Temple Church and in the distance could see the figure of a large man running towards us in the twilight with both arms stretched out in front of him, his hands appearing to be clasped together in prayer.
I grabbed hold of Fowler by the shoulder of his coat and pushed him towards the back seat, and as I did I saw in the encroaching blackness the briefest muzzle flash erupt into the dimness and heard the telltale phut, phut sound of a silenced pistol recoiling softly in my ears. I heard Fowler scream out in agony as I jumped into the Cortina and frantically stuffed the key into the ignition, turning it clockwise and pumping my foot down onto the accelerator pedal, knocking some gas into the engine. As it roared into life, I quickly looked into my rear-view mirror and could just pick out the white face of the fast-moving gunman, who was now only a few yards away, off the rear bumper. I saw him take aim as I stuck the car into reverse and hammered full-pelt backwards at him. The boot of my car made contact with something hefty. I slammed on the brakes and shifted the gear lever into first then sped forward out of the secluded back road into Victoria Street. I put my foot down and started to head east out of the city. I looked back into my mirror to see if I was being followed but could see nothing coming up behind me. Nor could I see Doc Fowler.
“Fowler, you OK back there?” I kept staring into the mirror, trying to pick him out in the pitch-black. “Fowler, speak to me, brother, you OK?” It was a relief when I finally saw the doctor’s head come into view as he strained to pick himself up from the footwell in the back seat.
“The devil has his claws in me, Mr Ellington.” Fowler coughed heavily and I felt his warm spittle hit the back of my neck.
“Quit the gospel sermon will ya, doc? Start talkin’ sense instead o’ that mumbo jumbo you been selling me fo’ the last half-hour. Now, tell me, who was the cat firing at us with the cannon back there?”
I watched in surprise as Fowler leant forward in his seat and reached over towards me, plastering the side of his right hand down across my cheek. My face felt wet as he slumped back in his seat. I wiped my cheek and jaw with my hand and, as I did, the smell of uncooked liver wafted up my nostrils.
“What the fuck is that you smearin’ all over me?”
“I’m afraid it’s my blood, Mr Ellington.”
“Your blood? You cut yo’self or someting?”
Fowler’s breathing was more laboured. I switched on the interior light so I could get a better look at him.
“One of Paxton’s bullets found its mark.”
“Aw shit, doc! You better not be bleedin’ over that leatherwork back there.” I took my foot off the gas, slowing down and looking for a place to pull over.
“No! Don’t stop . . . Just do as I say . . . Get us out of the city, head out towards Hillfields. Do you know Speedwell?”
“Yeah, I know it.” I put my foot back down on the accelerator and did as Fowler asked.
The doc spoke in a low, calm voice. “Now, listen to me, Mr Ellington . . . Don’t interrupt . . . We don’t have much time. You need to make your way over to the swimming baths on Whitefield Road. When you get there, you’ll need these keys.” Fowler hauled a large ring of keys out of his pocket. “I’m leaving them on the back seat for you here, along with the envelope of money you gave me earlier.”
“Hey, man, that’s your money. It’s like I said, I don’t welch on a dea—”
Fowler cut into what I was saying, coughing savagely. “I told you, shut up and listen . . . Where I’m going, I ain’t gonna be needing money, son . . . When you reach the baths, climb over the wall and take the service entrance at the back of the place. These keys will get you in. You need to follow the stairs down into boiler rooms underneath the pool. Just keep going until you reach a storeroom right at the back. The tiny skeleton key will open it up; inside, you need to search carefully because I’ve hidden the certificates that you want well. You’ll find what you are looking for inside there, and when you do, Mr Ellington, you’ll understand. Some real cruel people want what I’ve hidden and there’ll be more men like Paxton coming to get it. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I think so. Look, man, I need to git you to a hospital now. I’ll go pick up the damn certificates later, let’s git you sorted—”
“No, it’s too late for me, just do as I say . . . Speedwell baths, now. Can’t this thing go any faster, damn you?”
I pushed my foot down on the accelerator and watched as the dial on the speedometer raced up past sixty-five miles an hour then turned my head quickly to check on the doc. As I did, he spoke to me, his voice faint and quavering.
“When you see Ida Stephens again, tell her I said that I�
�ll see her in hell.”
I turned to get my eyes back on the road, and as I did I heard the blistering scream of the wind tear through the interior of the car as the rear door was flung wide open. I hit the brakes: the piercing sound of rubber screaming to a halt on the tarmac filled my ears. I watched in the rear-view mirror as the flailing, frail body of Theodore Fowler was violently thrown down the middle of the road behind me, his ragged, battered corpse finally coming to a bone-shattering halt in the gutter on the other side of the street.
6
I got outta my car and ran across the road to where Doc Fowler was lying. Under the orange glow of a street lamp, I stood and stared down at the shattered remains of the old man, which were huddled up against the kerbside. He was a real mess. His battered face was covered in sticky blood, which poured out of a massive wound from above his right temple. Both of his frail arms had been dragged back behind him with the force of the impact. The cloth from his left trouser leg had been torn completely off at the knee and the shinbone below it had split and was poking out of the calf muscle at a right angle. I crouched down and got close to the doc’s head, my ear close against his mouth, in the hope he might still be breathing. All I could hear was a deathly silence. I raised my head and put two fingers under Fowler’s chin to check for a pulse, but the only thing I could feel was the warmth of more fresh blood, which was now seeping into a pool in front of where I was knelt.
I lifted myself up off the tarmac and scoured the length of the road for a telephone box so I could call for an ambulance, but there was none to be seen. My heart felt like it was pounding out of my chest. My jumbled brain struggled to think through the carnage I had just witnessed. As I desperately tried to fathom out what to do next, Doc Fowler’s prophetic words sprang back into my head, words that he had spoken just before he had thrown himself out into the street: Where I’m going, I ain’t gonna be needing money, son. I looked at my watch: it was just after nine fifteen. The roads were empty of cars and not a soul was out on the streets. I gazed back down at the body at my feet. Fowler’s earlier words rang out at me again: Some real cruel people want what I’ve hidden and there’ll be more men like Paxton coming to get it. Do you understand? The sound from my car exhaust chugging away brought me back to my senses. I looked across the road towards the reddish glare of the rear brake lights and followed the hazy beam a few yards back up the road. I could just pick out the faint outline of something lying on the darkened asphalt. It was one of Theodore Fowler’s shoes, which had been ripped off as he was thrown from the vehicle and was now in the middle of the road. I walked across and picked it up then returned to where the doctor lay, bent down and placed the scuffed old shoe back onto his cold foot.
With an indescribable feeling of malevolence clinging to my insides, I returned to my car, retrieved the envelope containing Fowler’s money and the set of keys he’d given to me, and tossed them both onto the passenger seat before I got in. As I drove away I stared straight ahead of me, not returning my eyes to the rear-view mirror to again witness the horrific scene I was leaving behind me, fearful that I would glimpse the vile aura of some demonic entity as it wrenched Fowler’s screaming soul down into a fiery underworld for all eternity.
The sign read Poplar Road as I pulled into the dimly lit side street next to Speedwell swimming baths. I took a torch out of the glovebox, stuck the envelope full of cash into my inside pocket, picked up the keys from off the seat next to me then got out of the car and walked round to the boot. I opened it up and took out a tyre iron and looped it through the belt of my trousers. The air was still and humid, the clear night sky moonless and star-filled as I made my way back on to Whitefield Road and walked the short distance to the baths. I headed to the rear of the building until I found the wall Fowler had told me about. I clambered over and switched on my torch, scanning the shaft of light in the dark in front of me until I could pick out the doorway I was looking for. I fished for the keys in my coat pocket and shone the flashlight on them until I found the skeleton key.
Getting into the place wasn’t a problem; in fact, everything up to now had been a walk in the park, and that had me on edge. I closed the door behind me quietly and let my eyes adjust to the darkened surroundings of the strange and silent building. The heady aroma of chlorine from the pool water hit me as I edged my way further inside. I used the torch’s thin stream to scan the walls and floor. Even if I found a block of switches to fire up the overhead lighting, I knew that doing so could arouse suspicion from passers-by outside and I couldn’t risk getting hauled in by the police for breaking and entering after the kind of night I’d had. The idea of explaining to the old bill why I was wandering around the corridors of a swimming pool during the hours of darkness with a pocket full o’ cash and my hands covered in the blood of a dead man I’d left back on a Bristol roadside hardly filled me with joy. I’d have to find the entrance to the boiler room the best I could in the dark.
I continued along the unlit passageway until I came to a staircase. I shot the torchlight along the remainder of each side of the corridor but couldn’t pick out any other stairs, so I guessed this was the one Fowler had said I should take to reach the storeroom. I put the palm of my left hand out onto the warm wall; my fingers splayed out and ran it up and down until I felt a wooden handrail. I grasped hold of it then shone my flashlight at my feet to pick out the first set of steps in front of me. I carefully made my way down into the belly of the building, and as I went further into the unknown, the air around me became clammier. I counted each step as I descended into the depths: twenty-four over three flights of stairs. I finally reached flat ground again and moved the beam of my light around me. I picked out a door in the blackness and carefully headed the four odd feet from the foot of the stairs towards it. I found a handle midway down, turned it and opened up the door; as I did, the full force of the overwhelmingly steamy heat from the boiler room hit me.
Inside, I felt around on the wall at my right-hand side and found a bank of light switches. I quickly knocked each one of them on and had to quickly snap my eyes shut from the intense glare for a moment. I squinted until my sight adjusted and I was able to see straight again. The sweltering room was lit with the severe brightness of the seven or eight high-wattage bulbs which were hanging from a series of shortened roses on the low ceiling above me. The pungent chemical hum of the water-purifying solution had travelled down the stairwell and wafted its unpleasant, choking fragrance around me. I took a look around me: the room was a good forty feet long and there were six large boilers gently warming up the pool above me – not only were they kicking out a hell of a lot of heat but they made a hefty racket too. Heavy pipework ran up the walls, and above my head each tank hissed and belched compressed hot air and gurgled noisily as if they were about to erupt at their seams with jets of boiling water.
I continued to walk towards the end wall in search of the storeroom where Fowler had told me he’d hidden the certificates. When I reached the end of the underground chamber all I found was a row of green-painted industrial metal shelving. It was around eight feet long, and apart from a few boxes of tools and a couple of stacks of grubby, yellow-edged copies of the Bristol Evening Post on its midsection, all the shelves were surprisingly empty. The wall behind was masked by a sheet-metal back that was pot-riveted to the rear of the shelves’ long frame. I stood at its end and switched on my torch again to see if it was attached to the brickwork. It wasn’t.
I grabbed at the frame, dragged it away from the wall and shone the torch in. I held the beam on the midsection of the wall, my light picking out a small wood-panelled door, perhaps no more than two or three feet wide by five high. I yanked at the frame again, pulling it further across the floor, then got on my haunches and shuffled along to the doorway. Halfway up its right-hand side was a looped iron handle. A large brass padlock was fitted above it, holding it firmly shut. I pulled out Fowler’s loop of keys from my coat pocket and searched through them, trying each one for size in the padl
ock until it finally released. Rather than pull out towards me, the door opened inwards. I clicked my torch back on again then gingerly pushed open the door and shone the light in.
The stink was the first thing that hit me; the rancid odour of stale urine that filled the place made me gag. To my surprise, the room was already dimly lit from the floor up by a series of candles, each one at different stages of burning. Wax had spread out and hardened on the red-brick floor.
I crawled in and tried to take in what I was seeing. This was no storeroom for damn sure. It had the eerie feel of a mausoleum and was certainly the right kind of place for Doc Fowler to be keeping his darkest secrets in. It was cramped, damp and unbearably hot; I felt like I was in a rabbit’s warren. At its best it was no more than eight feet high by ten wide, and looked like it ran another fifteen feet towards its back wall, which I could barely make out in all the gloominess.
Across the centre of the tiny chamber stood what looked like a decorator’s table, which had been covered with a long length of hessian cloth that reached down to the floor, obscuring anything that might be behind it. On my hands and knees, with my torch gripped in my right hand, I made my way towards the end of the table. As I grew closer I heard the scuttering sound of a rat as it retreated into the darkness. I shone the torch out towards the rear of the room and could see laid on the ground a small, beat-up mattress. At the foot of it was a crumpled mess of tatty sheets. I crawled over to the makeshift bed, checking up and down the sides of the walls with the torch’s beam. At the top of the mattress lay a ragged pillow. I felt at its indented centre with the flat of my left hand: it was still warm.
As I squatted on my haunches, trying to fathom out what the hell was going on, I heard a faint rustling sound coming from behind me. I turned and shot the flashlight’s fading beam along the length of the cloth-covered table and began to quietly move closer towards it, listening carefully for the noise again. I took hold of the edge of the hessian covering and yanked it sideways away from me. I swiftly ran my light inside the small recess but could see nothing. I was about to return my attention to the bed behind me when my rapid strafing of the dusky air caught the flickering of something white in the furthest inner nook of the table, close to its back leg. I desperately tried to make out what it could be that I’d briefly caught sight of. I inched in closer, stuck my head under the table and pointed my light into the darkness.