by Finch, Paul
For some reason, I was again reminded of the woman I’d imagined on the train. Had she been wearing peasant garb?
I tried to laugh at such a vivid imagining, but I didn’t because I knew I would hear it echoing in the distant, empty regions of the building.
I pushed on, bag in hand, making my way through the first residential block. Crawford House consists primarily of one-bed rooms, all of a uniform size and all accessible by arched, teak-panelled corridors, which, thanks to their ornate floors and the many handsome paintings adorning them, have the aura of a country mansion. The main feature of the hall – and a glorious one it is – is the quadrangle; a central lawn, maybe sixty yards across, always beautifully mown and with white marble benches arranged around its edges. It is circumnavigated by four ivy-clad cloisters, each one like something from a medieval monastery. Whether you’re walking there or simply reclining on the grass, it makes the perfect environment for contemplative study. The only drawback with this tranquil place is that, at night, it isn’t lit. By the time I reached it, full darkness had fallen, and as I came through the glass doors into its southwest corner, both the southern and the western cloisters possessed a dungeon-like gloom. The new-risen half-moon cast a faint luminescence into them, but thanks to their many pillars, they were broken all the way along by intermittent strips of impenetrable shadow.
I paused, surprised at how nervous I suddenly felt.
Was my spine really creeping, my hair really prickling? A second passed before I managed to regain some self-control. This was sheer nonsense. I’d lived here for two years already without a single qualm. I pressed on along the western cloister, but I’d only gone about twenty yards, my steps clipping on the tiles, when I heard a voice.
“Richard …”
I stopped dead.
Cheerwick had said there was no-one else here, and he was a meticulous sort of man. He wouldn’t have made a mistake. But I knew what I’d just heard. Not just a voice, but a female voice, slightly muffled. And it had called my name.
To my right, the grass of the quadrangle lay smooth and crisp in the moonlight. Ahead and behind, the cloisters led off into dimness. There was no movement anywhere. I again tried to tell myself that I was tired – maybe stressed by the emotionally draining events of that day – and that my overwrought imagination was playing tricks on me. But I couldn’t help thinking the obvious.
Hardly able to believe what I was doing, I glanced down at my bag.
It was idiotic behaviour, embarrassing. But the voice had sounded close. And it had said my name.
Before I knew it, I’d placed the bag down and was unzipping it. “But I haven’t done anything to the blasted thing,” I murmured. “I haven’t even touched it, let alone …”
Even though logic was screaming at me to desist, I started rooting through my dirty underclothes. It was daft, stupid … but I had to know, and dug determinedly downwards. When I took out the brown paper bag containing the doll, the tape was unfastened – but of course it had been. I’d opened it again in the shop, though I thought I’d re-stuck it afterwards. I shook the doll out into my hand – and stared unblinking at the squiggles of biro that had been etched onto its empty visage, creating a brutish parody of eyes, nose and mouth.
My first reaction was fury at Purlock for ruining the present I’d forked out twenty quid to pay for. When I licked my thumb and tired to wipe the biro away, all it did was smudge and make the poppet’s half-formed features look even more horrible. Then a sharp thrill passed through me as I realised that this wasn’t just peevishness on Purlock’s part – in his own ignorant, foolish way, he’d actually been trying to hurt me.
And just how ignorant and foolish had he been?
I remembered the voice. And now the doll seemed bigger than it had done before – by several inches. Suddenly I felt revolted by the flawed thing, utterly repelled. I whirled around and dumped it into the nearest waste-bin. Then I stepped back, holding my breath. It was laughable, but I almost expected to hear a rustling from inside the bin. There was only silence, though; as there should be.
I began to relax. At the end of the day, twenty quid was hardly the end of the world, though I’d make damn sure that I got it back off Purlock when term started.
I wiped the palm of my hand on the side of my jeans, and hurried on, turning along the northern cloister, passing back indoors and heading upstairs to the first floor, where my room was located. I paused and glanced at the door on the other side of the corridor. My room was number 102, whereas Purlock’s was number 101. I felt brief regret that my wayward pal wouldn’t be back in there for another couple of weeks; despite how I felt about him at that moment, he would have provided some much-needed company. I let myself into my room, turned the lights on and felt better to be in familiar and cosy surroundings. All my valuables – my PC, my modem, the speakers for my iPod and such – were locked in the wardrobe, but the room had been made up impeccably. There was a clean quilt on the bed, the rug had been swept, the desk-top and shelves dusted. A new notice-board had even been screwed to the wall, on which I could pin my timetables. Normality at last.
I slung my bag and stripped my jacket off. I was hungry, but I could always nip out and get something later. I took the kettle from the cupboard, filled it at the sink and plugged it in, then went to close the blinds and draw the curtains, and as I did I glanced out of the window – down onto the quadrangle. And for the second time that evening I stopped dead.
Someone had just vanished out of sight below. Someone who had just walked diagonally across the quadrangle.
The chill went to my very bones.
There was nobody else here, I told myself. Aside from Cheerwick, and it certainly hadn’t been him. I tried to recall who it was I’d just seen. But no answer was possible, because who could there be in Crawford House who was less than three feet tall and walked with an ungainly limp?
A child maybe?
But there were no children here. And in any case, when did you ever see a child wearing a headscarf and old, peasant-type clothing?
Downstairs, I heard the swing and bang of the door being violently opened.
A terrible second passed, before I threw myself across the room and yanked my own door open. What sounded like heavy but strangely hollow feet were clumping up the stone stair. I listened for a second, beads of sweat prickling my brow, then I totally lost control. With a barely restrained whimper, I dashed into the corridor, slammed my room door behind me and hared away down the passage. Undeniably it was cowardice, but what would you have done? Good God, what would anyone have done?
I rounded the corner at the far end, before coming to a staggering halt. A rational voice was telling me to stop, was assuring me that there was a perfectly normal explanation. Perhaps it was a child? Perhaps Cheerwick’s granddaughter was staying with him? Perhaps she’d brought me a message from the bursar’s office? But no, another voice replied. There was an intercom system. Cheerwick would contact me via that if he needed to. I waited there, perspiring in the darkness. Suppose the person I’d seen was a common burglar? But a burglar – three feet tall, wearing a pantomime costume?
And then there was a furious hammering sound; a succession of blows on woodwork. It was deafening, it echoed through the entire building. And I knew what it was.
The door to my room.
My skin crawled.
As abruptly as it had begun, it ended. There was a brief silence, followed by a splintering crash as my room was burst open. There’d been no need for such violence, of course, the door was on the latch, but the manner of that intrusion spoke volumes about the intentions of the intruder. As did the explosive racket that followed, the thunderous detonations as numerous items – my valuables – were flung from wall to wall.
I fled on along the passage, turning corner after corner, only to find myself in a part of the building that I didn’t particularly know. It was pitch-dark again, aside from the occasional shaft of moonlight through a frosted side-windo
w, though these only served to create weird and ghostly phantasms which filled me with even more dread. What was worse, every door I tried was locked, every stairway I passed led upwards and not down. Breathless, the heart pounding my ribs, I stopped to get my bearings. And within seconds, I heard again that heavy, hollow clumping of feet: a hideous stump, stump, stump . They were approaching the corner just ahead of me. And now that I was close to them I could hear something else as well: a slow, stiff creaking – like the bending and flexing of timber. A long, twisted shadow appeared. No-one so small could cast such a shadow, I told myself. But perhaps they weren’t so small any more? Perhaps they were still growing?
I went the other way, racing blindly back through the building until at last, more by luck than design, I came to the top of a stair which dropped down to the ground-floor. I descended at speed, hopeful that it would take me outside, but instead of finding an exit, I entered what looked like a janitor’s closet: it was a lengthy, narrow room, filled with props and brushes, reeking of disinfectant. High, letter-box shaped windows shed only minimal light into it. I stared into this cul-de-sac, dismayed. Would I have time to get back up the stairs and take a different route? By the sounds in the passage above – stump, stump, stump – I doubted it. Whimpering, I kicked my way through buckets and tins, barking my shin on the side of a chair. Had it not been dark down there I’d still have been blinded by the sweat pouring into my eyes. Had my stalker come on silent feet, I still wouldn’t have heard her because of the racket I created.
“Must … must be a way out!” I jabbered.
And, by a miracle, there was.
I’d stumbled to the far side of the closet, where I crashed heavily against a door, which opened under the impact. Beyond it there was a long, straight corridor, at the end of which a second door – a glazed door – showed the silhouettes of iron railings. I charged towards it. It was a fire-door, for use in emergency only. I rammed the safety-bar down and barged out into the open air. Behind me, the alarms began to blare. Lights were suddenly flashing all over the building, but I couldn’t have cared less. I vaulted over the railings, and staggered away through the now empty streets, finally reaching the city-centre, where I found a street-corner payphone. I went straight into it.
I had to contact Purlock. What other option was there?
Not that it would be easy. Normally I’d use my mobile; Purlock’s details were programmed into it. But my mobile was dead, which meant I had to recollect his number by memory. I snatched the receiver in my sweaty hand, and, by the grace God, the first string of keys I tapped out was correct. I still had my wallet in my back pocket, but there was almost no change in it. I tore the thing apart, but even then was only able to find a single twenty-pence piece. I slammed it into the slot just as a voice answered.
It was Purlock himself. He sounded sleepy, as though I’d woken him up.
“Dean!” I screamed.
“Rich?”
“For God’s sake, Dean … the poppet!”
His voice began to shake. “Rich … I’m so sorry …”
“Never mind that now! For God’s sake, help me …”
“You need to understand … I was so upset … I tried to warn you …”
“Just tell me what to do!”
“There’s nothing you can … oh, wait. Look, if you bring it back here …”
“What? Back to the Lake District?”
“If you don’t …”
And the line went dead. Over such a long distance, my twenty-pence had lasted less than a minute. With a hiss of futile rage, I flung the receiver down and scrambled outside again. There was a brooding silence in the surrounding streets. Entries were filled with shadow. Parked cars created unlit niches between themselves and the shop-fronts. I scanned every dark space, but the only sign of movement was scraps of litter scuttling down the gutters. Seconds passed, during which time the perspiration cooled on my brow.
Was it possible I’d imagined everything? Had I perhaps fallen asleep in my bedroom and suffered an awful nightmare? I was just beginning to entertain the possibility that this could be true, when I heard them again.
Those feet.
They were unmistakable, though now of a higher timbre as they echoed clog-like on the paving stones: Clack, clack, clack …
The renewed horror almost froze my blood. For a moment I was semi-paralysed. I wanted desperately to turn and run, but which direction to take? Several options beckoned: the entrances to a couple of narrow courts; a cut-through between buildings. But I was disoriented. The acoustics of the deserted city-centre bemused me. Whereabouts was the abominable thing? And then I saw it – or rather, I saw its shadow, lengthening as it approached along the adjoining side-street. My mouth went dry as I stared at it: that lumpen, malformed outline spearing along the pavement, the twitching, jerking motion as it advanced. And those terrible sounds: the clack, clack, clack of hollow feet, the persistent creak of timbered joints.
I retreated slowly, even now not believing what was happening to me, but knowing deep down that this peril was as real, if not more real, than anything I had faced in my entire life. So I ran. I turned tail and fled. Like a lunatic. Like a deranged beast. The railway station was well over a mile off, but I sprinted all the way to it, not once looking behind me. Not even stopping for breath. I reached the place in what must have been record time, but when I arrived on the concourse the ticket office was closed. I glanced up at the digital clock. It was past eleven o’clock. I tried not to panic. I could pay when I got on board.
I dashed through the maze of white-tiled subways beneath the platforms. At this time of night it was every bit as unwelcoming down there as you might imagine: cold, damp, rank with the smell of urine. I didn’t care. I ran on, tottering up the steps to the north bound platform. This too was deserted. I came to a breathless halt. The kiosks were shut, the waiting room empty. I looked up at the timetable screen. According to that, a couple of trains were still due to arrive. But they were local connections; neither would take me as far as Birmingham, let alone Windermere.
Woodwork squealed behind me.
I spun around wide-eyed, only to see that a station guard had emerged from an office, which he was now closing behind him. He had a coat on as though he was about to go home for the night.
“Hey,” I said, rushing towards him. “I have to get to Windermere.”
He looked at me askance. “Windermere?”
“Yes. I have to get there now .”
“Sorry mate.” He was plumpish and elderly, with bushy white eyebrows over a genial face. He seemed genuinely regretful about what he had to tell me. “There’s no train up there. Not at this hour.”
“There has to at least be a service to Birmingham. I can make it from there.”
“Birmingham?” He shook his head again. “It’s too late.”
“For Christ’s sake!” I tried to grab his arm. “I have to go now!”
“Well you can’t.” He’d noticed my dishevelled state and was starting to look nervous. “The next train to Birmingham’s half-six tomorrow morning.”
I seized him by the collar, shook him, swung him around, so much so that he had to fight to get fee of me. “You’re lying!” I howled.
“And you’re off your rocker!” he stammered, backing away.
“You’ll pay for this!” I pointed a shaking finger at him, turned, ran to the top of the stairs and charged back down into the subways.
There’d been a taxi-rank on the station concourse. They were only minicabs, but I was sure that, for the right price, one of them would take me the fifty or so miles from Oxford to Birmingham. I stumbled through the network of passages. They seemed even gloomier than before, their décor reminiscent of a gentlemen’s public lavatory. Water dripped from their arched ceilings, there was thick moss between the glazed tiles. They were also labyrinthine. I turned one corner and found myself facing a blank wall. I backtracked and tried another one. This passage looked more familiar. Overhead, a train
thundered past. I swore. I was sure that bastard of a train-guard had misled me. And then suddenly, for the fourth or fifth time that day, I came to a sliding halt. The distant rumbles of the train were fading, allowing me to hear something else.
There was a turn just ahead. And what sounded like feet were approaching it – dull, hollow feet. Accompanying them was a loud, repetitive creak .
I was rigid with horror. But I was worn out too, not just with physical exhaustion but with fear. And perhaps inevitably that fear now gave way to uncontrollable rage. A diminutive figure – no longer three feet tall, closer to five, but still a good deal shorter than me – lurched awkwardly around the corner, its scarfed head bowed. I gave a bull-like bellow and let fly with both fists. I landed blow after blow, savage, brutal impacts. I was tired of running, I roared, I wasn’t going to run any more.
And without resistance, the little old beggar-woman went down in a heap, the tin cans spilling en masse from her squeaky supermarket trolley.
*
“You’re having a busy shift, Craig,” the staff nurse said, as PC Rosethorn came into the hospital A&E for what seemed like the umpteenth time that night. On this occasion he frogmarched a confused-looking young man, whose hands were cuffed behind his back but who was stumbling and bleary-eyed.
Rosethorn nodded. “This is the GBH from the railway station earlier.”
The nurse looked the prisoner over. “Is he injured himself?”
“No, but he’s really flipped. He needs to see a doctor.”
“Okay. Bring him through.”
They moved back down the access corridor.
“So what’s making this Monday night different from all the others?” the nurse wondered.
Rosethorn shrugged. “Who knows? They keep telling us the crime figures are falling, but I don’t see it. Mind you, there’s one good thing … I’m not far off my record now, and I’ve only been on duty three hours.”