by Chris Dolley
"Absolutely. If Ziegler can hypnotise Peter, so can I."
"But what if you can't?"
She had visions of becoming another John. Trapped inside another man's body, screaming her innocence to an incredulous Ziegler, demanding he track down all her friends from the village. If she had any left.
"Look, Lou," he said. "John managed to surface and talk to Ziegler so we know that Peter can't maintain control for ever. Sooner or later he'll sleep or whatever it is he does and we'll surface too. And when we do, we separate."
He made it sound so easy—wait, surface and separate—no mention of the ordeal in between. Had John had to go through this? Was he still going through this? Was this Peter's initiation process for prospective new personalities—mess with their minds until they're too far gone to resist?
A wind picked up outside. It whistled through gaps in the door-frame, swirled under the door. A tiny whirl of dust and fallen leaves floated across the floor. The air turned colder
Louise stared doorwards and braced herself. It wouldn't be long.
Rain beat against the outside of the door. Hail, by the sound of it. Tiny pellets of ice skittered under the door.
And then someone was calling. A child's voice, plaintive, carried on the wind, almost drowned in the noise of the storm. A small child, wet, lost and looking for shelter.
"Go to the side of the door, Lou, and stay out of sight. If Peter tries to run back outside, grab him."
The iron ring door handle began to move. Louise took up her position to the right of the door. And behind Nick, a sailor began to laugh.
Déjà vu. Louise recognised the sound in an instant. She'd heard that laugh before. The instant before everything had gone black and Peter had pulled them into his sick, twisted world.
"Turn it off!" she shouted, her eyes dancing between the sailor and the door. Which was the bigger threat?
Nick didn't answer. He'd turned away from the door and was staring at the sailor: its head shaking with laughter, its hands outstretched, one foot raised ready to dance.
The door rattled, the wind howled and above both rose that laugh—no hint of humour anywhere near it: a manic, mechanical, forced laugh that built and built and crackled and shrieked, threatening to burst Louise's ear-drums apart.
Her hands flew to her ears. She told herself it was an illusion, to be strong, to ignore the sailor and concentrate on Pendennis.
But it was so hard. The pain! Her ears were bleeding. She was sure of it.
The door began to open. Nick hadn't noticed. He was still staring at Jack. He hadn't even covered his ears. Louise yelled at him to turn around.
And then the sailor began to dance.
Tiny feet and hands pumped out a rhythm—up and down—marching into madness. Faster now, its mouth growing wider, its rouged cheeks redder, its head thrown back with a deafening roar. Faster still, whirling and cavorting inside its glass cage, lifting its feet clear of the restraining wire until it was dancing wild and free.
The door opened. The wind came with it, flattening the heavy oak door against the wall. A small boy stood rooted in the doorway, staring at the sailor, rain beating off his head and shoulders.
Should she grab him? He was alone, stationary, an easy target. But then what? Nick was the one with the plan. What the hell was she supposed to do with the little shit? Beat him up until Nick came out of his trance?
She swayed in the wind, bent double, her hands clamped to her ears. How could she think straight with that bloody row in her head?
"Nick!" she shouted. He still didn't move, still staring at that dancing monstrosity. She staggered towards him.
"No, Jack." Another voice—Ziegler's—the words carried in on the wind, fighting against the sailor's laugh. "Stop that," he insisted. "You don't feel like laughing any more. You want to be quiet. You're feeling sleepy."
Jack danced faster, spinning its body like a dervish whilst keeping its eyes locked on Nick's. The laughter, if anything, grew louder.
Louise felt the building shake. Tiny shards of plaster fell from the ceiling. Cracks appeared in the walls. And blood began to trickle from Nick's ears.
No! She ran towards him, grabbed him, tried to pull him away. He wouldn't budge. He'd become rooted there. She shook him by the shoulders, pulled and shoved. Still the sailor laughed, still he danced. And still the building shook.
"You're feeling tired, Jack," said Ziegler. "You have to close your eyes."
Jack didn't care. And Nick wouldn't move. Louise covered Nick's eyes with her hand. Would that break the spell? He reached up and pulled her hand away.
Large chunks of plaster fell all around them. Masonry and ceiling joists. Lights flickered, went out, clattered to the floor. The whole building was coming apart.
She glanced towards the door. Peter was still there, as transfixed as Nick, his little eyes wide, his mouth parted in a silent 'O'.
And that bloody sailor—why wouldn't he shut up? Why wouldn't he go to sleep? He was being hypnotised, wasn't he?
Something wet trickled from Louise's ear. It's all illusion, she told herself. The blood, the sound, the pain. All illusion.
Everything except Ziegler's voice—and that was getting nowhere. "You're feeling tired, Jack," it said. "You can barely keep awake."
No effect. She had to do something! There was a length of wood in the rubble, she pulled it out, started swinging. Smashing the glass case then going after the sailor. Screaming at it as she did so, each sentence punctuated by a massive blow. "Go to! Fucking! Sleep!"
The sailor fell back, still laughing, got up and turned his gaze upon her. She looked to the side—avoiding his eyes—kept swinging, connected once . . . twice. Jack went down. The laughter stuttered. Nick moved. The spell had to be broken. She hit Jack again and again then threw down her club, launched herself at Nick and pushed him towards the door.
"Come on!" she urged, pushing and shoving, the building collapsing around them, the laughter starting up again.
Pendennis stood in the doorway, still staring at the sailor, enthralled. They barged past him, out into the rain and the wind and a seaside promenade that stretched for miles.
They ran, waves crashing against the shore to the left, the spray mingling with the wind and rain. They ran, a salty tang at the corner of Louise's mouth. They ran, on and on for ever.
Behind them a little boy grew into a man, a museum crumbled to dust and a tiny wooden figure climbed out of the ashes.
Chapter Twenty-One
The promenade shimmered. Cliffs rose high on the right, a wall of water on the left—the two coming together. The sky falling to meet them. White clouds, white cliffs, white foaming water. Upper Heywood; she could see the corridor forming in front of her eyes.
They were back.
Nick and Louise stuttered to a halt at the next T-junction, placed their hands flat against the far wall and bent forward, fighting for breath. It was a while before either could speak.
"What happened to you back there?" asked Louise.
"I couldn't move," said Nick. "I looked into its eyes and that was it. I was paralyzed."
As had Pendennis.
"It's not just Peter in here, is it?" she said in between breaths. "We've got to contend with all his personalities. Even if he falls asleep there's still . . . the other dozen to contend with. He could pass us from one to the other."
"It doesn't change anything," said Nick. "Whoever assumes control . . . can be hypnotised. Even Peter . . . we saw it. And . . ." He took another deep breath. "Once I hypnotise them, the control is broken and we can get out."
"Jack can't be hypnotised."
He turned his head towards her and grinned. "I know. Which is why we've got to flush Peter out, slip a hypnotic noose around his neck and get the hell out."
He started to laugh, which shocked her. What was there to laugh at?
"Sorry," he said. "I was just thinking that your hypnotism technique could do with a little work."
He pu
shed himself off the wall, grabbed an imaginary club and attacked a make-believe Jack. "Go to! Fucking! Sleep! Hmm, I'll have to present that to the next Psychiatric symposium. Though I think the use of the surgical two by four might be a tad controversial."
They both laughed. Louise felt invigorated. She'd had nothing to laugh at for . . . for as long as she could remember.
"You really think you can hypnotise Pendennis?" she asked.
"I not only think it, Ms. Callander, I believe it. And belief . . ."
He stopped, his eyes taking on a faraway look.
"What's the matter?" said Louise, swinging round to check both corridors. Had Jack appeared? Had something happened?
His face snapped back into a smile and he grabbed her shoulders. "Belief, Ms. Callander. Belief and imagination. Why didn't I think of that earlier?"
He let go of her and stepped back. "This whole place is imaginary, right?" he said, emphasising his words with a sweep of his arm.
She nodded, unsure where this outburst was leading. Didn't they already have a plan?
"Illusion," continued Nick. "A work of imagination where gargoyles can come to life and rooms fade and crumble."
"Ye-es?"
"So it's our turn to play. And, first, let's get out of these stupid gowns."
He screwed his eyes shut, concentrating. Louise watched, not sure what the hell was going to happen. He morphed in front of her. The hospital gown replaced by jeans, T-shirt and trainers.
"You try it," he urged. "Think clothes and force yourself to change."
She did. Anything to get rid of that ridiculous gown.
She opened her eyes. It had worked! She had her favourite sweater and her work trousers and . . . heavy boots.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"No, I'm getting prepared." She lifted her right foot, concentrated, stared at the boot and . . .
Spikes shot out from the soles.
"You're going mountain climbing?" he asked, surprised.
"Not quite," she said, retracting the spikes. "It's a little insurance in case someone grabs me from behind again."
She flexed her feet in her boots. Perfect fit. And it was so good to be covered from head to toe again.
"What next?" she asked.
"A door, I think," said Nick. "Maybe we don't have to confront Pendennis, maybe we can tunnel our way out?"
He selected a piece of wall and started to trace the outline of a door with his fingers. A line appeared, as though drawn by a crayon. The line turned into a rectangle: five feet high and three feet broad. He stood back and admired his work.
"Some kind of mechanism to open it, I think. A button . . . about here." He pointed to a spot and a button sprang from beneath his index finger.
"Okay, Lou, now comes the moment of truth."
She held her breath. He leaned forward and pressed the button. A crack appeared in the wall, following the outline of the door. All along the line, the paint began to craze and peel off, the plaster too, tiny flakes of paint and plaster falling to the floor, forming into a long pile at the base of the skirting.
Then there was a shudder. The wall groaned . . . and opened. They'd built their first door.
Louise looked inside. There was a room: a musty, unlit, rubble-strewn room with no other door or window. They climbed inside. It looked like a building site. Cobweb-covered planks lay propped up against breeze block walls, the cement oozing out from every join. Empty pots of paint lay discarded on the floor next to misshapen buckets and stubbed out cigarettes. It could have been a store room or a cellar. It could have been anything long-abandoned and never meant for show.
"Where now?" asked Louise.
"We keep on going in a straight line until we find a way out."
It sounded so easy; picking their way through the rubble to the next wall, creating another door, watching it swing open. How big could Peter's Upper Heywood be?
The door opened on another of Upper Heywood's labyrinthine corridors. They climbed through and started work on the far wall.
"How about a circular door this time? Or star-shaped?" asked Nick.
"I think door-shaped will suffice," said Louise, glancing up and down the corridor. Peter and his friends couldn't be far.
They kept going, cutting door after door, going from internal chamber to corridor to internal chamber again. The place was a warren, everything looked so similar. Louise began marking each door, giving them numbers just to prove to herself they weren't going around in circles.
As Nick started on door number eleven, she looked back the way they'd come at the long line of open doors. They had to be making progress . . . but was the maze infinite? Would Peter's imagination be working ahead of them—extending his maze as fast as Nick could cut?
That's when she heard it. An empty paint can being kicked over about six doors back.
"What was that?" asked Nick, spinning around.
Louise couldn't make anything out. She narrowed her eyes, squinted into the distance. Was that movement back there or a trick of the light?
Then she saw it; scurrying across the rubble, jumping through the next door, closing on them fast.
Jack.
"Don't look at his face," said Nick, lunging forward to grab hold of the brick and plaster door and force it closed. "You work on opening the next door. I'll seal this one shut."
Louise carved the next opening, abandoning rectangles and going for the quicker circle. She pointed her finger, concentrated, and sliced the wall with a single sweep of her arm. The door flew open—there was no time for buttons. Behind her, Nick smoothed the crack surrounding the old door into non-existence.
Louise ran to the next wall, her right arm outstretched and carving two strides before she reached the wall. A smell hit her; something was burning. And that noise . . . what was it? She threw the door open then glanced back. A tight blue flame was shooting from Nick's fingers. He was welding the door shut.
On to the next wall, pausing to wait for Nick. They couldn't afford to get separated. All these corridors, Jack could circle round and come at them from any direction.
She had the next door open. Nick was crouching behind her working on the previous one, searing it shut, the paint curling and blackening beneath his fingers.
A bulge appeared in the crack a foot below Nick's hand. He wasn't fast enough. The crack between door and wall was widening, a tiny hand was forcing its way through.
Nick turned up the heat and brought the flames down on Jack's hand. Flesh-coloured paint cracked and crackled, tiny fingers blackened into sticks of charcoal.
The sailor screamed. Another blast of flame. Little fingers writhing, flaking off, falling to the floor. Could Nick weld Jack to the wall?
Something moved in the embers of Jack's hand. His fingers were regenerating, pushing out again, searching for something to twist and squeeze. Nick's hand spat flame but seemed to be having little effect now. Louise called to him from beyond the next door.
"Leave him. Come on!"
"You can't escape," said a new voice. Pendennis. He was in the corridor about ten yards away. Nick swung around to face him. Louise jumped back into the corridor. She'd cover Nick's back. Keep that little sailor shit behind the wall.
She filled her mind with flame, held it there, breathed deep, sucked in all the oxygen she could imagine and then breathed it all out in one intense jet directed at the sailor's writhing hand. Jack screamed, his fingers vaporized.
But he'd be back. Thirty seconds, a minute. She'd bought Nick time and she'd keep buying him time until he put that serial killing bastard to sleep.
"Hello, Peter," said Nick, adjusting the intensity of the flames spitting from his fingers. "How are you today? Feeling tired?"
Peter was leaning against the corridor wall, dressed in red and looking unconcerned. "Makes no difference what you do to me," he said. "The only way out's through this door and Peter's the only one who can open it."
As he spoke, a red door materialised in the wall
behind him. A red door quartered with wooden panels, a gleaming brass letter box shining below a heavy door knocker. It could have been someone's front door—maybe Peter's front door. The shiny gloss paint dazzled in the reflected fluorescent light.
"Then you'd better open it, Peter," said Nick. "Before you fall asleep." He stifled a yawn. "It's so stuffy in here, don't you think?"
Nick was only a few yards away from Pendennis now. He stretched out his right hand, changing the colour of the flame from blue to yellow and let it dance and flicker on his palm.
"Look into the flame, Peter. Can you see the patterns inside?"
Peter pushed away from the wall. He did appear to be looking at the flame. Louise watched. Was it working? He seemed mesmerised by it, he took a step closer, leaned forward, staring at the little flame, his eyes no more than six inches away from Nick's hand.
Then Pendennis smiled, and started to blow.
The flame on Nick's palm roared and flared, sweeping back towards his face, engulfing him. It was as though Pendennis was breathing pure accelerant. The whole of Nick's body was enveloped by flame. He staggered backwards, arms flailing. And that smell. Like no smell Louise wanted to smell again. Burnt hair, charred flesh . . .
She had to act. She had to close her mind to the smells and sounds. It was all illusion. Nick would heal. His real body was elsewhere. She had to act now.
Using the flames as cover, she leaned into the wall behind Nick, thinking herself through it, thinking herself vapour, thinking the wall permeable, a mere membrane to stretch through. She solidified on the other side, then ran along the wall of the inside chamber, towards Pendennis and a few metres beyond. Another shift, vapour again, back through the wall, into the corridor, behind Pendennis and out of his line of sight.
She solidified, thinking herself taller, thinking herself larger, thinking herself stronger. She reached down, grabbed Peter by the hair with her left hand, tugged him backwards and struck him hard in the face with her right.
He crashed, sprawling to the ground.
"Open that door, Peter. Now!" she commanded.
He looked up at her through misted eyes, his nose bleeding. "You hit me?"