by Tim Ellis
***
She switched the torch on. Was she doing the right thing leaving the inspector alone? He looked like shit. There was no way he could have come with her. What was going on with him? She crawled towards the end of the building and found the services shaft. It had an access ladder that looked like a tunnel with circular metal strips attached every two feet or so.
Up or down? She didn’t know. Up or down? If she went down – it was twenty-six floors, but climbing down was a lot easier than climbing up. If she went up – where would she go? She could climb up to the next floor and find Perkins, but what could he do? He was trapped on the twenty-seventh floor the same as she and Quigg had been trapped on the twenty-sixth. Beyond that, what was there – the roof? Maybe she’d be able to get a signal on her phone and call for help – maybe not.
Down. It seemed to offer the best chance of success, but first she’d go up one floor and let Perkins know what was happening. Quigg needed help, otherwise he wasn’t going to last very long. The stairs might reappear, or the lift could start working again, while she was climbing down the shaft. If Perkins could get to him first, then he stood a better chance of survival.
She began climbing up the ladder, and soon reached the ceiling cavity of the twenty-seventh floor where she scrambled along the dusty concrete to the access panel.
Ah!
If she jumped down, how was she going to get up again? Maybe this hadn’t been the brightest idea she’d ever had, after all. She lifted the panel, lay down on her stomach and stuck her head through the opening – she couldn’t see or hear anyone.
Was Louise still on duty? She and Byrd were meant to be relieved at eight o’clock – what time was it now? Probably way past that time.
‘LOUISE?’ she shouted at the top of her voice.
She tried again. ‘ANYBODY?’
She couldn’t see any movement, but she heard something in the cavity space next to her. As she pushed herself up to look, something smacked on the back of the head.
Everything went black.
***
Was he doing the right thing letting Kline go off on her own? She’d have more chance without him than with him. What was wrong with him? Why did he feel so weak? He must have caught a virus – the bubonic plague maybe.
He dragged himself along the corridor to Flat 24/4 – belonging to Mr & Mrs J Moore – closed the door, locked it and did the best he could to create an effective barricade behind it. He jammed a chair under the handle, which seemed to work in the movies. He’d actually never tried it, but it was the best he could come up with. He added a small bookcase with three books on the top shelf: A History of Thimbles by Edwin F Holmes; Mole Catching: A practical Guide by Jeff Nicholls; and A New Look at Wife-Swapping by Roger Blake, which he might have skimmed through if he hadn’t felt so drained of energy.
Instead, he decided that something to eat followed by a good night’s sleep would hit the spot.
After rifling through the cupboards and fridge, he made himself beans-on-toast with grated cheese on top. Once he’d eaten it, he helped himself to a double quilt and pillow from the bedroom, wrapped himself in the quilt and lay on the sofa.
Sleep took him even before his head hit the pillow.
***
The lump on the back of her head was caked in blood. Involuntarily, she drew a deep breath when she touched it.
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ a woman with staring eyes said.
‘I’m a fucking police officer – are you crazy?’
‘What you are doesn’t make much difference in here. I had to stop you shouting out.’
‘Why?’
‘If they found us, they’d kill us.’
‘They?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Some of the other residents.’
Kline shook her head and winced at the pain. ‘No, you’ve lost me.’
‘I’m Emma Lovelock. I live in Flat 14/7 with my . . . or I used to. They killed my husband and took my two children away.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about? It’s a joke, isn’t it?’
‘If only,’ she said. ‘Ask these other people if you don’t believe me.’ She shone a torch over a small ragtag group of desperate-looking people.
A middle-aged man with thinning hair, glasses and a sleeveless jumper over a checked shirt and tie said, ‘I’m Jeffrey Moore from Flat 26/4. What Emma says is true – they took my wife.’
‘I broke your door down and requisitioned some cheese from your fridge.’
‘You didn’t bring any of it with you, did you?’
‘No, but my boss is holed-up in your flat. We have to . . .’
‘Forget about him,’ another man said.
Kline’s jaw set hard as concrete. ‘We’re not forgetting about him. We should . . .’
Another woman grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t you understand – he’s gone?’
‘What do you mean – gone? Gone where?’
‘They’ll get to him. If they don’t kill him, he’ll join them.’
‘He wouldn’t join them – he’s not well.’
A grey-haired black woman pushed her way to the front of the group. ‘My name is Jeannette King – I have a PhD in African studies. They’re like zombies, they’re under the influences of something or someone.’
She half-laughed. ‘Zombies! Don’t be pathetic. I’ve stumbled onto the set of a zombie film, haven’t I? Is Brad Pitt in here somewhere?’
‘Mock us if you want to,’ Emma Lovelock said, ‘but this is for real. We have as much idea about what’s happening as you do. It started two nights ago. Some of the residents began breaking down the doors of our flats. Dragging husbands, wives and children away, and killing others . . . We tried to escape, but the stairs had gone, and the lifts didn’t work. We tried reasoning with them, but they wouldn’t listen. It was as if they’d been hypnotised. They weren’t dead, but they weren’t alive either . . . God, it was awful – they showed no mercy.’
‘How did they drag the people away if there were no stairs and the lifts didn’t work?’
‘They control them.’
‘Of course they do,’ Kline said. ‘So, what’s your plan now?’
‘Plan?’
‘Well, surely you’ve got a plan. I mean, you’re up here hiding from them – now what?’
‘Now nothing,’ Jeffrey Moore said. ‘We’re just glad to be alive.’
‘What are you doing for food, water and the other things you need?’
‘A couple of us are lowered down, grab what we can from open flats and then get hauled back up.’
‘Have you got any weapons?’
Emma Lovelock seemed to be their spokesperson. ‘No, what for?’
‘To kill them.’
‘We don’t want to kill them.’
‘But they’re trying to kill you.’
‘Some of them are our husbands, wives and children,’ Moore said. ‘I couldn’t kill my own children.’
‘Then you’re all going to die.’
‘Not if we stay up here and keep out of their way.’
She looked from face to face. ‘Is that your plan – to stay up here out of the way?’
They each nodded.
‘For how long?’
‘We haven’t got any answers,’ Lovelock said, and began crying softly.
Kline put a hand on her knee. ‘Sorry, but you need a plan. You can’t stay up here forever. We have a forensic team and some officers on this floor. I was going to . . .’
A woman with short brown hair, a double chin and a torn blouse showing her ample breasts said, ‘I’m Lisa Bradbury from Flat 17/6. Haven’t you noticed that the building keeps shifting?’
‘What I’ve noticed is that you’re all as crazy as loons. Buildings don’t move.’
‘All I know is that one minute we’re in a corridor with people trying to kill us, and the next they’re gone – the corridor is empty.’
Yes, she had noticed that, but she wasn’t going to admit it to
these crazies. She was sure it wasn’t the building shifting – buildings didn’t move for fuck’s sake. But if it wasn’t the building – what was it? None of it made any sense. She was meant to be here investigating a murder with her partner – DI Quigg. Instead, she was huddled in a ceiling cavity on the twenty-seventh floor with a bunch of lunatics, and DI Quigg looked as though he was going to die unless he got some help.
‘I’m sorry, but your plan isn’t my plan. I’m going down onto this floor. I need to get help for my boss, and then I need to call for back-up.’
‘They won’t let you leave,’ Moore said.
‘Nobody stops Tallie Kline from doing what she wants to do. I’ll be leaving this place, and nobody had better try and stop me.’ She lifted the access panel. ‘I’m going down there. You can either stay here and help me get back if I need to, or keep out of my way.’
‘We’ll help if we can,’ Lovelock said.
Kline nodded, and lowered herself into the corridor.
***
His eyes dropped open.
Surely, he’d only just been sucked into the whirlpool of sleep. His head felt as though it had been used as a volleyball in a World Championship qualifying match. What time was it? Why had he woken up? Didn’t he need as much sleep as he could get?
He turned over and closed his eyes. More sleep was definitely required.
‘Quigg?’
He forced his eyes open again. Who was calling his name? It sounded like Celia Tabbard. Why was she calling his name? How had she got into the building? Why was she here? What did she want? Where was she?’
‘Quigg?’
‘Hello?’
‘Let me in.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to see you.’
‘Now’s not a good time.’
‘Let me in, we can talk about it.’
‘I don’t know if I should. I need my sleep.’
‘You need me.’
‘I know what you have in mind.’
‘Do you, Quigg? Do you really?’
‘What you always have in mind.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘I have to rest.’
‘You can rest afterwards.’
‘I’m not feeling very well.’
‘I can kiss it better.’
‘I’ve heard that one before.’
‘Let me in, Quigg. Let me show you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’
‘I’ll regret it if I do.’
‘Let me in. You know you want to.’
‘Go away, Celia. All I want to do is sleep.’
He lay back down, dragged the quilt over his head and closed his eyes. Sleep – that’s what he really needed.
‘Quigg?’
Had he been asleep? He didn’t feel any better for it if he had. In fact, it seemed that every time he closed his eyes Celia woke him up.
‘Go away.’
‘Let me in.’
‘Not tonight, Celia. Maybe tomorrow.’
He heard scratching at the door.
‘Stop scratching the door, Celia. You’re not coming in.’
‘If you let me in, I’ll make all your dreams come true.’
‘I dream of sleeping. If I let you in I won’t get any of that.’
‘Let me in now, Quigg.’
The door shuddered in its frame.
‘Quigg?’
It was Lucy. How had she got in the building? In fact, how had she found out where he was? What was she doing here?
‘You’d better let me in, Quigg.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why. I haven’t had a good fuck for days.’
‘Is Celia out there?’
‘Never mind about her. I’m here now. Let me in.’
‘I just want to sleep.’
‘I’ll let you sleep.’
He tried to laugh, but he didn’t have the strength. ‘You’re not Lucy. Lucy would never let me sleep. Who are you?’
Another voice, an evil voice said, ‘I’m your worst fucking nightmare, Quigg. When I get in there I’m going to tear you limb from limb.’
‘I don’t think I’ll let you in then.’
He heard a terrifying howling sound as if there were monsters in the corridor. He yanked the quilt over his head again.
Sleep – just leave me alone to sleep.
His eyes slammed shut and his mouth hung open. If there was a world record for tiredness, then he’d be in the Guinness Book of Records.
He was hallucinating – that was the only explanation. Some of the people he cared about were inhabiting those hallucinations. Why Celia and Lucy? Why not Ruth and Duffy? Did it matter? No, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was sleeping. Whoever was out there could bang on his door all night – he wasn’t going to let them in.
Sleep.
Hours and hours of wonderful sleep.
***
She sidled along the twenty-seventh floor corridor. If only she had a tank, or at the very least a rocket-launcher. Where were the forensic officers? Where was Constable Louise? Where was Perkins? For some reason she was back on the floor that she’d started on. How was that possible? The building hadn’t moved, so it must have been her, but how? She retraced her steps and looked up. Crap! The access panel was closed. Either the people she’d met had gone back on their word to help her, or they weren’t there anymore.
‘Hey?’
No response.
‘Hey! She shouted a little louder. ‘Anybody there?’
The panel didn’t move.
She tried not to think such thoughts because they were ridiculous, and if they popped into her head she forced them out again, but one thought kept rattling at her skull. Could she be in a parallel universe – an alternate reality? Was there even such a place? It was science fiction and pathetically absurd. She was as crazy as the woman in 27/1 for allowing the thought to linger. The trouble was, if Perkins wasn’t in 27/3, then where was he? And where the fuck was she?
It wasn’t the first time she’d shifted from where she was meant to be, to another place. How was she doing it? Was she doing it? Or, was somebody else doing it to her? That last idea made her angry. If she found out somebody else was doing it to her – there’d be fucking trouble.
First, she checked Flat 27/3. The name on the brass plate was Lance Flowers.
Nobody answered her knock, so she kicked the door in. It definitely wasn’t the crime scene.
There were two bread rolls in the bread bin. She checked the fridge and helped herself to cheese, a lettuce, a tomato and made herself two salad rolls. It felt like a thousand years since she’d eaten. She smiled – all this jumping between universes had made her hungry. After she’d eaten the rolls she gulped down half a litre of orange juice and spent a penny in Lance Flowers’ bathroom.
Before she left, she found a rucksack and filled it with essentials such as: a torch, a couple of big knives that she slipped in the side pocket for easy access, a litre of water, the rest of the cheese, the can opener and a couple of small tins of beans. There were probably a hundred and one things she should have taken, but she wouldn’t know what they were until she found she didn’t have them.
Next, she knocked on Flat 27/1 where Jenny French lived. Sometimes, the crazy people were exactly the right people to answer the crazy questions when your back was against the wall.
‘Who is it?’
‘The police detective who knocked earlier.’
‘Show me some ID.’
‘Can’t you remember my face?’ she said, pulling out her warrant card and holding it up to the peep hole.
‘People can easily be copied.’
‘I’m not a copy.’
‘Copies always say that.’
The door opened a crack. Jenny French still had her pointy tin foil hat on her head.
‘You’ve spoken to a lot of copies, have you?’
‘I’ve seen them pacing th
e corridor, wondering how they can get into my flat. What do you want this time?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’d like to talk to you about the copies.’
‘You’ve seen them as well?’
‘Yes.’
She moved out slightly and looked left and right along the corridor. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘I promise I’m not a copy.’
She opened the door.
Kline ducked under Jenny’s arm.
The door closed with a bang. Three bolts and five security chains were applied, and the key was turned in the lock.
‘What’s that smell?’
‘Garlic.’
‘Why are you burning it?’
Jenny passed her a pointy tin foil hat.
Kline shrugged and put it on her head. When in Rome . . .
‘The copies don’t like the smell.’
‘I can imagine.’
The hallway was lit with a low-wattage bulb. Tin foil covered the lamp shade.
Kline followed Jenny into the living room. The only light came from the static on the television screen. Tin foil covered the windows and had been wrapped around all the electrical wiring.
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘What have you got?’
‘A potion to ward off evil made from angelica root, crushed caraway seeds, chicory, palo azul, St Johns wort and vervain.’
She perched on the edge of a chair. ‘Sounds yummy, but I’m fine at the moment. What’s with the tin foil?’
‘The copies attack your brain first. They try to change how you think, put their thoughts inside your head and steal your thoughts until you have none of your own. All that’s left is them – they control you. They tell you to open the door and let them in – that’s what you do. It’s not you anymore. And if you let them in, you become one of them.’
‘And they do all that through the electrical wiring and appliances?’
‘Yes. The caretaker helps me keep them out.’
‘The building caretaker?’
‘No. I call him the caretaker because he takes care of me. He talks to me. He’s the only voice inside my head that makes any kind of sense at all.’