I decided to put the idea on hold, in case talking to Jeanette tomorrow made it unnecessary. Eventually I went to bed, where I thrashed and turned for hours. Some time just before dawn I drifted off, and dreamt about a cat being caught in a lawnmower.
I was up at seven, there being no point in me staying in bed. I checked the group, but there were no new files. On an afterthought I checked my e-mail, realizing that I’d been so out of it that I hadn’t done so for days. There were about thirty messages for me, some from friends, the rest from a variety of virtual acquaintances around the world. I scanned through them quickly, seeing if any needed urgent attention, and then slap in the middle I noticed one from a particular address:
anon99989
Heart thumping, I opened the e-mail. In the convention of such things, he’d quoted my message back at me, with a comment. The entire text of the mail read:
“>I know who you are.
>
Maybe. But I know where you live.”
When I got to work, on the dot of nine, I discovered Jeanette wasn’t there. She’d left a message at eight-thirty announcing she was taking the day off. Sarah was a bit sniffy about this, though she claimed to be great pals with Jeanette. I left her debating the morality of such cavalier leave-taking with Tanya in the kitchen, as I walked slowly out and sat at Jeanette’s desk to work. After five minutes’ thought I went back to the kitchen and asked Sarah for Jeanette’s number, claiming I had to ask her about the database. Sarah seemed only too pleased to provide the means of contacting a friend having a day off. I grabbed my jacket, muttered something about buying cigarettes, and left the office.
Round the corner I found a public phone box and called her number. As I listened to the phone ring I glanced at the prostitutes’ cards which liberally covered the walls, but soon looked away. I didn’t find their representation of the female form amusing any more. After six rings an answering machine cut in. A man’s voice, Ayer’s, announced that they were out. I rang again, with the same result, and then left the phone box and stood aimlessly on the pavement.
There was nothing I could do.
I went back to work. I worked. I ran home.
At 6.30 I logged on for the first time, and the next two pictures were already there. I could tell immediately that something had changed. The wall behind her was a different colour, for a start. The focus of the action seemed to have moved, to the bedroom, presumably, and the pictures were getting worse. J8 showed Jeanette spread-eagled on her back. Her legs were very wide open, and both her hands and feet were out of shot. J9 was much the same, except you could see that her hands were tied. You could also see her face, with its hopeless defiance and fear. As I erased the picture from my disk I felt my neck spasming.
Too late I realized that what I should have done was get Jeanette’s address while I was at work. It would have been difficult, and viewed with suspicion, but I might have been able to do it. Now I couldn’t. I didn’t know the home numbers of anyone else from the VCA, and couldn’t trace her address from her number. The operator wouldn’t give it to me. If I’d had the address I could have gone round. Maybe I would have found myself in the worst situation of my life, but it would have been something to try. The idea of her being in trouble somewhere in London, and me not knowing where, was almost too much to bear. Suddenly I decided that I had to do the one small thing I could. I logged back onto the erotica group and prepared to start a flame war.
The classic knee-jerk reaction that people on the net use to express their displeasure is known as “flaming”. Basically it involves bombarding the offender with massive mail messages until their virtual mail box collapses under the load. This generally comes to the attention of the administrator of their site, and they get chucked off the net. What I had to do was post a message providing sufficient reason for the good citizens of pornville to dump on [email protected].
So it might cause some trouble. I didn’t fucking care.
I had a mail slip open and my hands poised over the keyboard before I noticed something which stopped me in my tracks.
There were two more files. Already. The slob from Texas was getting his wish: the pace was being picked up.
In j10 Jeanette was on her knees on a dirty mattress. Her hands appeared to be tied behind her, and her head was bowed. J11 showed her lying awkwardly on her side, as if she’d been pushed over. She was glaring at the camera, and when I magnified the left side of the image I could see a thin trickle of blood from her right nostril.
I leapt up from the keyboard, shouting. I don’t know what I was saying. It wasn’t coherent. Jeanette’s face stared up at me from the computer and I leant wildly across and hit the switch to turn the screen off. Just quitting out didn’t seem enough. Then I realized that the image was still there, even though I couldn’t see it. The computer was still sending the information to the screen, and the minute I turned it back on, it would be there. So I hardstopped the computer by just turning it off at the mains. Suddenly what had always been my domain felt like the outpost of someone very twisted and evil, and I didn’t want anything to do with it.
Then, like stones through glass, two ideas crashed into each other in my head.
Gospel Oak.
Police.
From nowhere came a faint half-memory, so tenuous that it might be illusory, of Jeanette mentioning Gospel Oak station. In other words, the rail station in Gospel Oak. I knew where that was.
An operator wouldn’t give me an address from a phone number. But the police would be able to get it.
I couldn’t think of anything else.
I rang the police. I told them I had reason to believe that someone was in danger, and that she lived at the house with this phone number. They wanted to know who I was and all manner of other shit, but I rang off quickly, grabbed my coat and hit the street.
Gospel Oak is a small area, filling up the gap between Highgate, Chalk Farm and Hampstead. I knew it well because Nick and I used to go play pool at a pub on Mansfield Road, which runs straight through it. I knew the entrance and exit points of the area, and I got the cab to drop me off as near to the centre as possible. Then I stood on the pavement, hopping from foot to foot and smoking, hoping against hope that this would work.
Ten minutes later a police car turned into Mansfield Road. I was very pleased to see them, and enormously relieved. I hadn’t been particularly sure about the Gospel Oak part. I shrank back against the nearest building until it had gone past, and then ran after it as inconspicuously as I could. It took a left into Estelle Road and I slowed at the corner to watch it pull up outside number 6. I slipped into the doorway of the corner shop and watched as two policemen took their own good time about untangling themselves from their car.
They walked up to the front of the house. One leant hard against the doorbell while the other peered around the front of the house as if taking part in an officiousness competition. The door wasn’t answered, which didn’t surprise me. Ayer was hardly going to break off from torturing his girlfriend to take social calls. One of the policemen nodded to the other, who visibly sighed, and made his way round the back of the house.
“Oh come on, come on,” I hissed in the shadows. “Break the fucking door down.”
About five minutes passed, and then the policeman reappeared. He shrugged flamboyantly at his colleague, and pressed the doorbell again.
A light suddenly appeared above the door, coming from the hallway behind it. My breath caught in my throat and I edged a little closer. I’m not sure what I was preparing to do. Dash over there and force my way in, past the policemen, to grab Ayer and smash his head against the wall? I really don’t know.
The door opened, and I saw it wasn’t Ayer or Jeanette. It was an elderly man with a crutch and grey hair that looked like it had seen action in a hurricane. He conversed irritably with the policemen for a moment and then shut the door in their faces. The two cops stared at each other for a moment, clearly considering busting the old tosser, bu
t then turned and made their way back to the car. Still looking up at the house, the first policeman made a report into his radio, and I heard enough to understand why they then got into the car and drove away.
The old guy had told them that the young couple had gone away for the weekend. He’d seen them go on Thursday evening. I was over twenty-four hours too late.
When the police car had turned the corner I found myself panting, not knowing what to do. The last two photographs, the one with the dirty mattress, hadn’t been taken here at all. Jeanette was somewhere in the country, but I didn’t know where, and there was no way of finding out. The pictures could have been posted from anywhere.
Making a decision, I walked quickly across the road towards the house. The policemen may not have felt they had just cause, but I did, and I carefully made my way around the back of the house. This involved climbing over a gate and wending through the old guy’s crowded little garden, and I came perilously close to knocking over a pile of flower pots. As luck would have it there was a kind of low wall which led to a complex exterior plumbing fixture, and I quickly clambered on top of it. A slightly precarious upward step took me next to one of the second-floor windows. It was dark, like all the others, but I kept my head bent just in case.
When I was closer to the window I saw that it wasn’t fastened at the bottom. They might have gone, and then come back. Ayer could have staged it so the old man saw them go, and then slipped back when he was out.
It was possible, but not likely. But on the other hand, the window was ajar. Maybe they were just careless about such things. I slipped my fingers under the pane and pulled it open. Then I leant with my ear close to the open space and listened. There was no sound, and so I boosted myself up and quickly in.
I found myself in a bedroom. I didn’t turn the light on, but there was enough coming from the moon and streetlights to pick out a couple of pieces of Jeanette’s clothing, garments that I recognized, strewn over the floor. She wouldn’t have left them like that, not if she’d had any choice in the matter. I walked carefully into the corridor, poking my head into the bathroom and kitchen, which were dead. Then I found myself in the living room.
The big chair stood in front of a wall I recognized, and at the far end a computer sat on a desk next to a picture scanner. Moving as quickly but quietly as possible, I frantically searched over the desk for anything that might tell me where Ayer had taken her. There was nothing there, and nothing in the rest of the room. I’d broken – well, opened – and entered for no purpose. There were no clues. No sign of where they’d gone. An empty box under the table confirmed what I’d already guessed: Ayer had a laptop computer as well. He could be posting the pictures onto the net from anywhere that had a phone socket. Jeanette would be with him, and I needed to find her. I needed to find her soon.
I paced around the room, trying to pick up speed, trying to work out what I could possibly do. No one at VCA knew where they’d gone – they hadn’t even known Jeanette wasn’t going to be in. The old turd downstairs hadn’t known. There was nothing in the flat that resembled a phone book or personal organizer, something that would have a friend or family member’s number. I was prepared to do anything, call anyone, in the hope of finding where they’d gone. But there was nothing, unless . . .
I sat down at the desk, reached behind the computer and turned it on. Ayer had a fairly flash deck, together with a scanner and laser printer. He knew the Net. Chances were he was wirehead enough to keep his phone numbers somewhere on his computer.
As soon as the machine was booted up I went rifling through it, grimly enjoying the intrusion, the computer-rape. His files and programs were spread all over the disk, with no apparent system. Each time I finished looking through a folder, I erased it. It seemed the least I could do.
Then after about five minutes I found something, but not what I was looking for. I found a folder named “j”.
There were files called j12 to j16 in the folder, in addition to all the others that I’d seen. Wherever Jeanette was, Ayer had come back here to scan the pictures. Presumably that meant they were still in London, for all the good that did me.
I’m not telling you what they were like, except that they showed Jeanette, and in some she was crying, and in j15 and j16 there was blood running from the corner of her mouth. A lot of blood. She was twisted and tied, face livid with bruises, and in j16 she was staring straight at the camera, face slack with terror.
Unthinkingly I slammed my fist down on the desk. There was a noise downstairs and I went absolutely motionless until I was sure the old man had lost interest. Then I turned the computer off, opened up the case and removed the hard disk. I climbed out the way I’d come and ran out down the street, flagged a taxi by jumping in front of it and headed for home.
I was going to the police, but I needed a computer, something to shove the hard disk into. I was going to show them what I’d found, and fuck the fact it was stolen. If they nicked me, so be it. But they had to do something about it. They had to try and find her. If he’d come back to do his scanning he had to be keeping her somewhere in London. They’d know where to look, or where to start. They’d know what to do.
They had to. They were the police. It was their job.
I ran up the stairs and into the flat, and then dug in my spares cupboard for enough pieces to hack together a compatible computer. When I’d got them I went over to my desk to call the local police station, and then stopped and turned my computer on. I logged onto the net and kicked up my mail package, and sent a short, useless message.
“I’m coming after you,” I said.
It wasn’t bravado. I didn’t feel brave at all. I just felt furious, and wanted to do anything which might unsettle him, or make him stop. Anything to make him stop.
I logged quickly onto the newsgroups, to see when [email protected] had most recently posted. A half-hour ago, when I’d been in his apartment, j12–16 had been posted up. Two people had already responded: one hoping the blood was fake and asking if the group really wanted that kind of picture – the other asking for more. I viciously wished a violent death upon the second person, and was about to log off, having decided not to bother phoning but to just go straight to the cops, when I saw another text-only posting at the end of the list.
“Re: j-series” it said, and it was from [email protected]. I opened it.
“End of series,” the message said. “Hope you all enjoyed it. Next time, something tasteless.”
“And I hope,” I shouted at the screen, “that you enjoy it when I ram your hard disk down your fucking throat.” Then suddenly my blood ran cold.
“Next time, something tasteless.”
I hurriedly closed the group, and opened up alt.binaries.pictures.tasteless. As I scrolled past the titles for roadkills and people crapping I felt the first heavy, cold tear roll out onto my cheek. My hand was shaking uncontrollably, my head full of some dark mist, and when I saw the last entry I knew suddenly and exactly what Jeanette had been looking at when j16 was taken.
“J17.gif-{f}-,” it read. “ ‘Pretty amputee’.”
RAMSEY CAMPBELL
Going Under
IT IS ALWAYS a privilege to welcome my previous editorial collaborator Ramsey Campbell to the pages of The Best New Horror. In a career that has spanned more than three decades he has been the recipient of the Bram Stoker Award, the World Fantasy Award (three times), the British Fantasy Award (seven times) and the Liverpool Daily Post & Echo Award for continuing literary excellence. The most recent of his fifteen novels include The Count of Eleven, The Long Lost, The One Safe Place and The House on Nazareth Hill, and he is currently working on a new crime novel, The Last Voice They Hear. His numerous short stories have been collected in Alone with the Horrors, Waking Nightmares and Strange Things and Stranger Places, and he has also edited a number of outstanding anthologies, including New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, Superhorror, New Terrors, The Gruesome Book and Uncanny Banquet.
As he expl
ains, “ ‘Going Under’ is the product of a misunderstanding. Either Nancy Collins or someone else approached me for a story for an anthology on the subject of destructive obsessions. Later Nancy told me that her project Dark Love had a publisher, and I duly wrote this tale for it, only to learn that her subject was destructive relationships.
“Nevertheless, she very decently accepted my contribution. While I was searching for a theme on which to write for her I heard that the more recent of the Mersey Tunnels was to be opened to walkers as an anniversary celebration. Coincidence often presents me with material just when I need it. I planned to join the walk, but by the time it arrived I was already well into the tale, and so I let my imagination take the place of research.”
As an editor’s postscript, I’d just like to add that I’m personally exasperated by the current proliferation of mobile phones (and their equally irritating users). For anyone else like me, Campbell’s story of urban paranoia has added resonance . . .
BLYTHE HAD SHUFFLED almost to the ticket booth when he knew he should have sent the money. Beyond the line of booths another phalanx of walkers, some of them wearing slogans and some not a great deal else, advanced towards the tunnel under the river. While he’d failed to pocket the envelope, he never left his phone at home, and given the pace at which walkers were being admitted to the tunnel, which was closed to traffic for its anniversary, he should have plenty of time to complete a call before he reached the wide semicircular concrete mouth, rendered whiter by the July sun. As he unfolded the phone and tapped his home number on the keyboard the men on either side of him began jogging on the spot, an action which the left-hand man accompanied with a series of low hollow panting hoots. The phone rang five times and addressed Blythe in his own voice.
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