Red Gloves, Volumes I & II

by Christopher Fowler

  Best,

  Maggie

  —

  Janet,

  Sorry, I’ve only just found this so it didn’t go in the envelope. I’ll post it separately. You should be able to see the relevance without comment from me.

  Best,

  Maggie

  —

  BIOSECURITY RULES WERE BREACHED AT DEVON FARM: OFFICIAL

  The Devon turkey farm at the centre of the latest Avian Flu outbreak had been repeatedly warned about breaches in biosecurity, it emerged today. The latest World Health Organisation report is calling for a new international disease surveillance system to track mutating strains of Avian Flu, after it emerged that the virus has once again jumped species into humans, although in a relatively non-lethal strain.

  The report states, ‘While there has not been a pandemic since 1968, another one is inevitable. Estimates are that the next pandemic will kill between 2 million and 50 million people worldwide and between 50,000 and 75,000 in the UK. Socio-economic disruption will be massive.’

  Seventy-five percent of all new human diseases originate from animals, but experts have warned they are currently identified only after infection has spread to humans. The committee chairman, Lord Wentworth, said: ‘The last century has seen huge advances in public health and disease control through the world, but global mobilisation and lifestyle changes are constantly giving rise to new diseases and providing opportunities for them to spread rapidly. We are particularly concerned about the links between animals and humans. This is why a universal biosecurity code of conduct needs to be enforced on a global scale.’

  —

  Janet,

  Just time for a quick note—call me as soon as you’ve had a chance to go through everything. I’m going to the site tonight to gather further evidence. My inside contact has arranged to get me admitted to the church grounds. The boy is taking quite a risk, but is willing to make a stand so that we can bring this matter to the attention of the public. Thank God there are a handful of people left with genuine moral convictions. I need to be sure of my facts before going public, but if I’m right, there is a very real danger to us all. I’ll let you know how I get on.

  Best,

  Maggie

  —

  YOU HAVE REACHED THE ANSWERPHONE OF PROFESSOR MARGARET WINN. PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE BEEP.

  ‘Maggie, if you’re there can you pick up? I’ve been trying your mobile all morning but it goes straight to voicemail. Where are you? I’ve been going through the contents of the packet you sent me, and there’s something I don’t understand—the stuff about church architecture? This guy called Thomas Moreby, the apprentice of Hawksmoor who designed All Hallows. I couldn’t make a connection with what you were telling me about the public health issue, and I need to sort out—well, I need to know if all of this is on the level because it all sounds a bit crazy to be honest. Look, call me when you get this, okay?’

  —

  YOU HAVE REACHED THE ANSWERPHONE OF PROFESSOR MARGARET WINN. PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE BEEP.

  ‘Maggie, I still haven’t heard from you, and I need to fact-check if I’m going to run with this piece. I’ve been through everything now, and what you’ve sent me is potential dynamite. I’m not kidding, this could bring down the government. But I have to be absolutely sure of the facts. What did the police say when you reported the break-ins? We can’t afford to make any mistakes if we’re going to run all the way with this. If it’s a deliberate cover-up, if the Home Secretary has given specific instructions to ignore guidelines and bypass safety checks just so that they can get the poor, dim citizens of this country whipped up in some kind of patriotic frenzy, then I think we have to cover our asses every step of the way. And I’ll need photographic evidence, because great blocks of copy aren’t going to shift papers. Hey, I’m still a hack at heart, what can I tell you! Call me now, the second you get this.’

  —

  FOR THE ATTENTION OF AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. THE CONTENTS OF THIS TRANSCRIPT ARE CONFIDENTIAL. THE DUPLICATION OF THIS MATERIAL IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED UNDER SECTION 19 OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ACT.

  [This recording was copied from the hard drive of a PDA belonging to J Ramsey, editor of Hard News online newspaper, and is the property of MI6]

  SFX: (Background noise has been removed in order to clarify recording. Voice has been legally identified as that of the above user)

  ‘Well, Maggie, you’re always complaining that there are no real investigative reporters left, so I’m doing this for you. And for myself, obviously. Although strictly speaking, our advertisers don’t want to see any hard news on our site. They’d be much happier if we stuck to reports about handbags, restaurants and shoes, as you always put it. Let me turn the engine off.

  Okay, your Schwarinski guy appears to be waiting for me outside the church. There’s no-one else around and the main site lights are off. I spoke to him on the phone earlier and he told me that the new EEC law covering light pollution in built-up areas means they have to switch off the power at midnight. It’s—let me see, half past one in the morning. Let me go and see what he has to say. He looks quite cute. I might get a date out of it, if nothing else.

  All right, Mr Schwarinski has gone off now. I was kind of hoping he’d stick around because it’s bloody dark and I’m wearing heels. Not high ones, but the ground is really rough. He’s given me his torch and spare batteries, but he took off like a shot as soon as he saw me through the gate. All I have to do is pull it behind me when I leave. I get the feeling his papers weren’t exactly in order. He’s taken a big enough risk just by letting me in.

  I’m approaching the church. I think it’s safe to wave the torch beam about because there’s just the wall of the park on one side and the heath on the other. It’s raining lightly and I can’t see much traffic in the distance. The far road has been closed to vehicles in order to provide a works entrance to the site, so it’s very quiet here and kind of peaceful, like being in the countryside. Not that I know much about countryside, unless you count the outdoor smoking area at the Sanderson Hotel.

  I can see mechanical diggers lined in a long row like huge yellow beetles, all the way down one side of the churchyard. The main church door is locked—Schwarinski warned me that he wouldn’t be able to get the key. But apparently there’s a separate side entrance down here on the right, which he’s left open. It won’t take me into the main part of All Hallows, but I don’t need to go there. This should—the door’s stiff, but—hold on, there’s a stone caught under the door.

  I’m in. There’s a small stone vestibule and a staircase leading down. Kind of narrow, like the staircase in the Monument. I hope it doesn’t have as many steps. Very muddy underfoot—someone’s been up and down these stairs a lot from the main site.

  Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here. Shit, I just bashed my head on the ceiling, which is really low. Hang on. Right, I’m in a brick-lined storage room that appears to run the width of the church, but not the length. Pretty boring so far. It’s wet underfoot. Let me just—that’s better. I can see more clearly now. Not much down here, some blue plastic crates, a bale of wire, a hosepipe, a stack of plywood against the wall. But there’s another short corridor at the end, which according to your Irish pal leads to a second chamber. He thinks this is where they took the bodies, although if they did, they cleaned up afterwards as the floor here looks like it was recently washed down, and I can smell disinfectant. Yeah, there are puddles of the stuff all over the floor. I’m wearing Marc Jacobs shoes because I was out at dinner earlier. What an idiot.

  Okay, nothing to report here except—hold on.

  Interesting. Big wooden door rather like a miniature version of the famous ‘Gate of Judgement’ from St Stephen’s Church, the one that was destroyed in the Blitz. This one has the same markings, the skulls and weeping putti, but it’s in lousy condition. One side has been completely rotted through with fungus and woodworm. So much for the Catholic church preserving its antiqui
ties for future generations. Smells bad, too.

  Just so you don’t worry, I’ve put on an anti-bacterial face mask, like the ones Japanese girls wear. I got it from someone on the travel desk. Not that I think there’s anything down here to worry about. Maybe I should try to get the door open. Oh, it’s not even locked. The hinges aren’t attached on the other side. I can probably just push it out of the way—I have to put down the PDA to do this, so back in a minute. This is where gym classes come into use.

  Right, I’ve shifted it a little to one side, enough to squeeze through. It’s actually a lot heavier than it looks, and I don’t think I’ll be able to get it back in place by myself. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Behind is—let me hold the torch up—a bit disappointing really. What we’ve got here is another room, about thirty by forty feet, the back of which appears to be unfinished—it looks like packed earth at the end. The smell is very bad now. I have to say it smells like something rotting. No sign of any bodies, though. If this really was Thomas Moreby’s much-vaunted crypt of pure souls, it’s pretty unspectacular.

  There’s something about the end hall that’s interesting, though. Going in for a closer look. It’s bloody freezing in this part, and I can see my breath. Ah. Okay. Maybe I got a little too close. This is—yup, these are bodies all right, stacked floor to ceiling. All pretty squashed, dark brown and flat, just like the ones they pull from peat bogs. They’re not going to be following Moreby’s creed anytime soon, getting up and moving to their higher plane, mainly because I can’t imagine that any of their bones are strong enough to support them. They’re pretty intact, though. No smell from them—seems to be coming from somewhere else. Weird. Something down here smells—kind of alive, but rotten. Let me—no, definitely not the corpses.

  Well, they’ve been moved here now so presumably the church will be happy about that. Not much else to report. I’m going to take a few shots of the body stack for the article, but I have to say I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t much ado about nothing, Maggie. Okay, security protocol was breached, but these days that sort of thing happens all the time.

  Something—I just saw something in my camera’s flash. Shadows jumped. I probably imagined it. I’m going for another shot.

  Christ. There’s something in here—it moved really fast, just across the back of the camera frame. Okay, I’ll just fire off the flash.

  Jeez-us.

  Fuck. Have to get back to the doorway but I can’t see the gap. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Oh. Oh God.

  Oh God, Maggie, I’m talking to you and I’m looking right at you.

  How many days have you been in here? You poor—what’s wrong with your—oh fuck—I can see your arms moving even though you’re slumped against the wall so I know you’re alive, but why don’t you—what is that—

  What is that? There’s something all around you, like a red-brown mist. Shifting in and out of your skin. Oh Maggie, you have no eyes.

  Something has half-eaten your eyes and there’s something reddish-brown inside your mouth and you’re still moving, what happened—

  Fleas. They’re fleas. Thousands and thousands of the fuckers. Christ, I’ve been an idiot. The Great Plague was caused by fleas that infested the Dutch cotton bales, then travelled on rats and jumped to humans. They bit into the flesh and spread the disease by sucking and transferring blood. Fleas. Simple organisms that are still evolving.

  Everything you said makes sense now. No wonder Moreby believed the dead could walk again. They’re not truly alive, just infested with fleas that have existed in a state of suspension until released into the air once more. But look at you. There’s something more I can’t see. You’re moving almost as if you remember who I am. I can see the fleas shifting underneath your skin, but you look like you’re in terrible pain—let me see—let me—

  Oh God, your ears, there are thousands of them. They’re sucking the blood from your brain, gorging themselves on your flesh, it must be a living nightmare for you. I’m going to go for help. Shit, the little fuckers can really jump. I can’t see any on me but I feel itchy and you—you can just stay back there while I go back upstairs and make a call.

  Christ, you made me jump, Marek. I didn’t see you standing there. I’m glad you came back. I need to go upstairs and phone for an ambulance—what are you doing?

  Don’t put the door back! What are you fucking doing?!

  The son-of-a-bitch Russian fuck-bastard has shoved the door back in place. Let me out of here, you fucker! How much is he paying you? How much is your slimy boss paying you to do this? Open it, goddamn you!

  Well, Maggie, it looks like you and me, old pal. Yeah, you can just stay over in that corner where your little parasites can’t reach me. Do you even know what I’m saying? I can see you’re dead, you’re just not lying down. They own you now, your parasites have taken over their host. But what are they going to do once they’ve finished their food supply, eh? It’s a pretty dumb parasite that kills its host. Fuck it, this was going to be the story that made my entire career.

  Oh. So that’s how it works. Just for the record, if anyone ever gets to hear this, my friend Margaret is coming toward me, and I think she means to drain me of blood in order to feed her parasites. She’s cold and dead but the fleas are keeping her alive, so that she can feed on others. It looks like I’m about to join the pure souls, but I’m not going down without a fucking fight.

  Not going down.

  Christ, that hurts. Jesus, you bitch.

  You living dead bitch.

  Fuck, I’m down.

  Down.

  This would have made—a great—story.

  RECORDING ENDS

  From the Office of the Home Secretary to Dr Daniel Thompson, Dept Head UCH London

  Dear Dr Thompson,

  This file has been watermarked and licensed to you only. Please read the contents, then destroy. We think our informant Mr Schwarinski attempted to collect the recording from Janet Ramsey’s PDA, which he found on the floor of the crypt beneath All Hallows Church. However, he must have found both Ramsey and Professor Winn in a state of revived life. It appears that as he removed the door, they attacked and bit him, making their escape. We do not know their current whereabouts.

  Mr Schwarinski died of his wounds the following morning, but subsequently revived, attacking a hospital orderly. He has not been seen since.

  I have to warn you that you may face prosecution for failure to pass on information vital to national security. This situation is out of control now.

  Message ends.

  Locked

  The world, Tam decided, was one long series of keys and locks, and there were some doors that couldn’t be shut once they’d been opened. The one that was giving her the most trouble that late rainy Saturday afternoon in October was painted seven shades of sea-green and wouldn’t close properly—probably hadn’t closed for years. She wedged her trainer against it and shoved with her shoulder, but it seemed too big for the frame, so she went downstairs to Mrs Hamalki and borrowed her husband’s electric sander.

  The rent had seemed a little too good to be true at four hundred a month, given the massive size of the apartment, and as she stood on a chair sanding half an inch from the top of the door, she started noticing problems. There was an odd smell of gas or possibly sewage emanating from the floor of the kitchen. The passing trains were close enough to rattle the windows, and there was some kind of basement nightclub next door that attracted slouchy chainsmokers beneath her bedroom window. The nasty stain in the centre of the lounge carpet looked like a dead pet had been left there for some time. A rainstorm revealed the biggest threat to her peace of mind: dribbling patches on the bowed bedroom ceiling in three different places. It was easy to imagine a Poseidon-type moment when tons of filthy water might suddenly fall in on her head while she was sleeping.

  She got the door closed but it was still warped in its frame, as if it had been forced at some point in the past and would never be put right again. The
flat on Caledonian Road occupied the second and third floors of a terraced Victorian house, and had survived a century and a half of expanding floorboards, shrinking mortar, falling roof tiles and rising damp. But her sister Sophie had told her she would never forget her first flat, and she was right.

  The door was finally closed with a satisfying thump, and Tam dropped into her very own second-hand sofa, knowing that she was at last beyond the reach of her well-meaning but annoying parents. She had a fixed space she did not have to share, a kingdom extending from garden to pavement in which she was free to be calm and quiet and alone at last.

  According to Mrs Hamalki, the building had been owned by a single family for almost a hundred years, but had been turned into a boarding house at the end of the war, then carved into three flats in the early 1970s, to be reconfigured and repainted by dozens of tenants. If the ghosts of the original family still walked here, there was no easy way of sensing their presence beneath a dozen layers of cheap paint and paper. Tam would rather have liked to feel them pottering about the apartment, cooking or reading, or playing with their children. She owned a portable wind-up gramophone and a bunch of jolly 78 rpm records, but even the pre-war sound of Ambrose and His Orchestra was not enough to invoke their spirits. Too many drifters, drunks, loners and crazies had passed through the rooms since then.

  Spreading her arms along the back of the sofa, she looked across at the three tall windows, the elaborate ceiling rose, the archway through to the weirdly stocked kitchen (three knives, two forks, four cheese graters—why?) and felt an overwhelming sense of freedom. Then she spoiled it all by answering a text from Lewis, her boyfriend, who was still living at home and wanted to come over. She told him he could visit so long as he always called her first and brought an inaugural bottle of decent wine.

  Lewis arrived three hours later with a six-pack of lager and a giant can of cider. The simplest instructions always seemed to mutate in his brain. He had approached her a month earlier in a Shoreditch bar, and had spent the evening describing his unlikely adventures with a minor soap star more famous for her prodigious use of cocaine than her acting ability. Later Tam had discovered that Lewis was not the star’s best friend at all, but was in fact obsessed with her, to the point where he had been warned to stay away from her house at night.