by Phil Chard
Clink―Clink―Clink
Clink―Clink―Clink
She covered her ears...
...she could still hear the noises.
*
Charles put a reassuring hand on his wife’s back and rubbed therapeutically. She was still shaking slightly. When he’d got back, it had taken him an hour to convince her to open the door of her writer’s room to him.
“This is an old house,” he began, “there will be creaks galore. It will take us a while to get used to it.”
Emily turned to him, her eyes wrathful. “Don’t you dare tell me I imagined this!”
“No, I don’t think that.” Charles’ tone was conciliatory. “But you said yourself you had a couple of drinks―”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“Did I say that?” he paused. “But you had a couple of drinks, you were writing your book so your imagination was in overdrive―”
“Check the room Charles. Please.”
Charles read desperation in her expression.
“OK. OK.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead, then made his way to the door.
“Be careful,” she implored him through red, tear stained eyes. He smiled reassuringly in return and exited.
The room she had described to him was at the far end; he made his way over, past the ghastly wooden Siamese monstrosity, musing on his wife’s fragility this evening. When he’d entered the house an hour ago, he had heard no phantom noises. And yet she had been hysterical and in floods of tears, insisting that someone was in the room.
Charles paused at the panelled wood door. His hand made for the handle and he threw the door open. The room was exactly as he expected: empty. He strode inside and was immediately hit by the cold. An open window was quickly closed. The room itself was barren: cold, wooden, creaking floorboards were in need of repair, but housed no furniture―they’d not even stored any unopened boxes here― no rugs, no curtains on the windows, and even the walls were a blank colourless white.
His mind was churning over the amount of work that would be needed to fix the room up when an object caught his peripheral vision. He stepped towards it, then bent down and picked it up. He turned the metal rod around in his hands.
Like someone was banging down on some pipes, Charles...
Charles looked around and quickly spotted the heating radiator and its thin pipe snaking around the room. He examined the metal rod again and then looked at the pipes. After a length of time, he shook his head. It was his wife’s imagination that was all. And it would do her no good if she found out there was a metal rod in here, something that would give credence to her imagination’s tale. He looked around for a hiding place and his eyes eventually settled on one of the raised floorboards. It didn’t take long to pull it up, hide the metal rod and then fix the board back in place.
It was then that a loud noise behind him caught his attention.
The window he’d closed was now buffeting in the wind.
He could have sworn that he’d secured the latch down. Can’t have, he told himself. He closed the window shut and double checked that the latch was secure. It was.
Chapter III
Juliet stared impassively out of the window. Dark sheets of rain drummed onto the pavement outside. The same rhythm could be heard attacking the roof above. Outside, Friday night revellers were few and far between. When the doors of the fleshpots did open, newspapers, handbags and coats would be employed by people dashing to their next destination.
Although the cafe was warm, the images through the window were enough to trigger a shiver across Juliet’s back.
She looked at her watch. Joe was late.
Joe Miller was Juliet’s only real friend. Now a Detective Sergeant in the police, they had met on that fateful day 7 years ago; the then PC Miller and another officer had been the first police on the scene at Ludivicio Street. He was the only person in the world (apart from the spirits that Juliet had met) that knew the specifics of Juliet’s condition. Recently, he’d been employing Juliet’s unique skills to help him with some of his cases. Juliet didn’t like his approach to police work these days, but she owed him many things, not least of all a considerable amount of money. He’d bailed her out with rent arrears and life’s general monetary problems on so many occasions that her debt to him was spiralling out of control. Joe had been a righteous role model when they’d met, but the years in his job had corrupted him. Now he wanted to drag another soul into his darkening abyss, and she just happened to be the butterfly stuck in his insect jar.
Miranda, the girl working tonight’s late shift, was the only other person in the cafe. She was cleaning one of several empty tables and glanced over to smile creakily at Juliet. The smile fused hello with isn’t it time you were gone?
Juliet consulted her watch again. It was two-minutes-past-the-last-time-she-looked. It was late, but then Joe’s job could keep him late, and in any case he was not a forensic time keeper.
A new mix of cars and revellers drifted by the window.
Then just the rain.
Time danced to a slow tempo with little distractions via the window. Juliet drifted into melancholy thoughts. Where am I in the world? Where am I going in life? What’s it all for? She may have glimpsed beyond the veil, but she found little answers, only more questions.
Miranda started singing to herself. Her technique was bad and she was tone deaf, so it was reasonable to assume it was a plot to get rid of Juliet.
Then, finally, a car pulled up outside and a face stared out the driver’s side window towards Juliet. Despite the lashing rain’s attempt at morphing his features in the window, Juliet recognised Joe’s face. His hand beckoned her to the car—their conversation was to be held in private.
Juliet fumbled in her pockets for low value change, left Miranda a small tip and walked to the door. She zipped her leather coat up to her chin before charging at the door and beyond. With a swift dash she was inside Joe’s car and perceived the usual disorder: fast-food and sweet wrappers, empty drinks cartons, fragments of overread newspapers. It was a scene she associated with Joe on a stakeout. Joe killed the windscreen wipers but kept the car running. His gestures were all too familiar: he was busy, frustrated and angry by work. Their conversation would be short and to the point.
“How you been?” Joe asked, leaning over to face her.
“Alright,” Juliet replied. “You?”
“Busy. Sorry I haven’t been in touch in a while.”
“Hey, you’re not my father, husband, brother or lover. I haven’t been sat by the phone waiting, Joe.”
An expression formed on Joe’s face: You’re a bitch, it seemed to imply.
Juliet moved to fix her unintended faux-pas. “Look, I know you’re busy. There’s no need to explain anything to me.”
He faced forward, staring into the rain, his finger tapped nervously on the steering wheel. He was clearly still nettled by the remark. “I’ve been busy.” he repeated.
Jesus, I could do without this, Juliet thought. She decided to move the conversation forward. “What’s on your mind Joe?”
“The usual. I need you to look around a house for me.”
“Am I right in assuming the owner hasn’t sent me an invite?”
“Naturally. I need your unique skills. It’s covert, obviously.”
“What’s the owner of the house supposed to have done? What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Joe, you ever think you’re going about this the wrong way? Find the criminal then the crime? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
A flash of anger in his eyes. “You got a degree in police work now, huh?”
His raised voice enabled her to smell alcohol on his breath. She’d smelt it too often recently.
“It’s not just a reccy,” Joe began, voice calmer, “if you don’t find what I’m looking for, I need you to… take something in with you.”
“Let’s call a spade a spade Joe;
you’re requesting that I plant evidence… again!”
“Imagine if we could have done something like this with Jack DeGrisse, before―”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare bring his name into this!”
Joe held his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry.”
The rain beat down on the car.
They sat in silence for an interval.
“There are some missing girls,” Joe began, “just like you were missing, remember?”
“I haven’t read about any missing girls Joe. I’ve haven’t seen this on the news. And that kind of thing is normally on the news isn’t it Joe? Are you lying to me?”
“They’re not missing like you mean. They’re trapped. Sex trafficking, Juliet. He’s involved.”
Joe would always throw in deviancy to push the right buttons. Was it true? It didn’t matter. She’d do it. She owed him; she was still the butterfly stuck in his insect jar.
“He’s not at home right now. I have reason to suspect he’ll be out for a while.”
Translation: Joe had been watching the house, that’s why he was late. And he’d been watching the house a lot, knew the man’s movements and knew he wouldn’t be back for a while.
“OK let’s do it.” Juliet said, resigned to being his puppet once more.
Joe put the car into first gear.
Chapter IV
“The press release won’t be complete until 9 p.m.”
Charles Houghton grimaced. He’d have to stay, check it over and then sign it off. He made a quick mental calculation; he’d probably be back home for 11 p.m. There was no choice, a delay would cost too much. He nodded at Miles Dixon, the lanky platinum-blonde intern.
Now to phone Emily. Ever since the ‘Incident’ four days ago, he’d been careful to get home before darkness set in. There had been no further ‘Incidents’ since, but Emily was still on edge and fragile.
He mentally prepared his dialogue for the forthcoming scene and then punched her cell phone number into his phone.
She answered quickly. “Charles, thank God you called! I swear I’ve heard more noises! When will you be back?”
Damn!
The rehearsed dialogue had been a waste of time; his strategy had been ripped apart by events. “Emily, come on, are you sure it wasn’t your imagination?”
Emily let rip with a diatribe so ear-piercing that Charles had to remove the phone from his ear.
He waited for a pause in her outburst. “Emily, listen to me―If you’re scared, call a cab; go to the Red Lion Hotel. Have a couple of drinks there and when I’m finished here, I’ll pick you up directly―”
“Charles! I’m scared! Come home! Now!”
“I’ll be done for 10... 10.30 latest. Listen, if I could come now, I would, but delaying it―” he was about to blurt out the monetary penalties for any delay, but considered that this would be a tactical bungle, “―it’s just not an option―”
Emily had hung-up.
*
In a pique of anger, Emily threw her cell phone against the wall. When it collided, like a firework at its zenith, it split into three pieces, all rebounding in different directions. Her anger turned to panic; she scooped the pieces up and tried to knit them back together. Her actions were hindered by hands that were suddenly shaking.
With the cell phone re-assembled, she hit the On button. Nothing happened.
She tried it again.
And again.
And again.
Nothing.
No lights.
No power.
She then uncoupled the different elements of the cell phone and knitted them back together again. When she hit the On button, the result was the same.
She tried again.
Then again.
Then again.
...but it was still lifeless.
Tears were close, but anger made them withdraw. Her fists pounded the ground in frustration. They had no landline fitted; her cell phone was her only means of communication. Her fist was still pounding the ground. And now her knuckles hurt. Her anger quickly found another focus - Charles. Her dream husband had shown where his priorities lay, and she’d been told to queue. Damn him! He thought she’d imagined it all! Well she hadn’t!
Suddenly she was thirsty. Which of Charles’s expensive bottles of wine would she use to quench it?
After half a bottle of Rune Valley, Emily’s mood softened. A Broadway musical of melancholy memories started to play in her head. Act One starred Emily and Charles when they first met and the early days. Their hearts were all aflutter, a sudden shower of romance, whirlwind passion... he’d never laughed at her dream of becoming a writer, only encouraged her, even told her not to think about getting a job until she’d given it a real go.
She felt angry at herself. Had she imagined those noises? Had she...?
Clink―Clink―Clink
She didn’t believe that she’d heard the noise at first. Thought it was just a memory replay.
Clink―Clink―Clink
There was no mistaking it the second time. It was not imaginary.
Clink―Clink―Clink
She knew it was the drink, but she wasn’t scared.
Clink―Clink―Clink
She calmly poured another drink and hurled it down her throat.
Clink―Clink―Clink
She walked to the stairs.
Clink―Clink―Clink
Yes – the noise was from upstairs. It would be the same room.
Clink―Clink―Clink
She suddenly had a need to confront whatever this was...
Clink―Clink―Clink
...she wasn’t scared and she wanted it to know.
Clink―Clink―Clink
She climbed the stairs.
Clink――Clink――Clink
A change of tone. Again. Like last time.
Clink――Clink――Clink
Whatever this was, she had to confront it.
Clink――Clink――Clink
At the top of the stairs, her ears sought the origin of the noise.
Clink――Clink――Clink
As expected, it was the same room as before.
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
She approached.
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
She reached the door and stood motionless outside it.
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
It was incessant.
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
Her hand turned the handle and she threw the door open.
Clink
The noises suddenly stopped.
She stood at the doorway looking in at an empty room.
Her eye caught sight of a metal pipe on the floor. The window was open, a breeze whistling into the room. The cold reached her, her body responding with goose-pimples.
She walked―her footsteps delicate and precise―into the room.
She saw nothing unusual. Just the metal pipe on the floor of a room needing work. Just an open window letting in the cold. Her eyes were roaming. Still nothing. She felt emboldened, like she’d won this contest, shown bravery, defeated a cowardly... what? A thing.
The regiment of goose-bumps on her arm increased in number. Still eagle-eyed but with less caution in her steps, she made for the window and closed it.
SLAM.
She turned quickly. The door behind her had closed with force.
Immediately she felt her heart beating with ferocity and her breathing became frantic. She remained frozen to the spot for what felt like minutes, her eyes zigzagging around, looking for activity that never came. An odd sensation came over her. She could almost feel a presence in the room with her, but couldn’t see one. The presence was near her...
One foot went forward.
Pause.
Then another step.
Pause.
She was heading for the door. Another step, another step, then a frantic step and she ran towards it.
She made it, her hand reached for the handle...
It never made it…
A presence… it felt like an arm that was not visible, wrapped around her neck, wrestling her to the ground. Once there her head registered blows... one, two, three, four... as if she were being kicked by an invisible force. She felt something... it felt like a hand... again invisible and unseen... it was groping around at her body. She was tussling with it, this unseen force. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would stop playing ball. Something was tugging at her clothes, another invisible hand, she fought with it and then the blows returned.
One to the left side of her head. Her mouth spat blood onto the floor. Another blow came on the other side of her face. The pain was incredible. When the last blow came, it was like being in a room where the lights had suddenly been turned out. Consciousness was gone in an instant.
Chapter V
The intercom buzzed, buzzed, buzzed. An impatient finger was pressing it incessantly.
With a towel covering her, Juliet ran from the bathroom to the living room and pressed the button on the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“We spoke earlier Miss Spiers.”
She recognised his voice from their earlier phone call and buzzed him up to the flat. She didn’t have a lot of time, so changed into slacks and a long bathrobe before heading to the front door. He’d made it up the stairs and was stood waiting patiently for her. He smiled and nodded at her, then held out a perfectly clean hand that she guessed had only ever gestured others to do work.
“Charles Houghton.”
His clothes looked tailored and his appearance was spotless. Sharp black shoes reflected light from the hallway. He had short cropped hair and a face that looked airbrushed into perfection, not a hint of stubble, no lines and no wrinkles. His other hand held onto a bulging brown envelope.
Juliet shook the proffered hand. Despite beaming with manifest cordiality, his grip was excessive.