by Ray Clark
Reaching the end of the corridor, Anthony turned right into another corridor that headed left at the end. He tried to make sense of where he might be in the warehouse but he soon gave that up as a bad idea. The building was bloody massive. Even if he knew now, he probably wouldn’t by the time he’d finished the maze. If he finished it!
Anthony glanced behind, knowing that it would be nigh on impossible to creep up on him at the moment, unless Roger had followed him through the reception door.
Anthony scurried back to check. All was clear. He returned to his position and headed left. The panelling was still the same so he would have little choice but to go the way of the corridors.
The third corridor however, ended in a T-junction. So now he did have a choice.
Anthony wasn’t keen on that. What if he chose the wrong way? He supposed it didn’t really matter. He was here at Roger’s mercy so there wouldn’t really be any right way.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a coin. Heads he went right. Tails he went left. He placed the pepper spray and the syringe on the floor whilst he flipped. It landed heads up so he picked up his stuff and headed to the right.
At the end of that corridor he came up against a door. Anthony turned tail and slipped back the way he came so he could take the left turn, where he also came across a door at the end, so it mattered not which route he took. He suspected they would also be one-way doors again.
He was really pissed off with Roger’s games. Why the hell didn’t he simply come and finish him off like the others? What the fuck was the point of games and puzzles?
He was about to scream out in frustration but caught a grip of himself – bad idea.
Anthony grabbed the handle and twisted it. He decided that he would hold on to it so that he could return if he needed to.
That didn’t work. As soon as Anthony went through the door the lights went out and something brushed his face.
Anthony yelped like an injured dog, dropped the mace and the syringe and let go of the handle. The door slammed shut.
“For fuck’s sake,” shouted Anthony, all thoughts of not giving away his position having gone, like the lights.
But they came on again quite quickly.
Anthony picked his weapons up, stood up and turned, wishing he hadn’t. He was no longer in a corridor of wooden panels but a hall of mirrors.
Then the music started.
Chapter Sixty
Gardener slipped through the door and Reilly followed him. As it shut, Reilly turned and made a grab for the handle.
When it wouldn’t open he turned to his partner. “Good idea, that.”
“What is?”
“A one-way door. You can come through it but you can’t go back.”
“Doesn’t help us,” replied Gardener.
“Roger’s not after us. He wants to keep Palmer in here.”
Gardener turned and surveyed the corridor; it was long and narrow with smooth wood-panelled walls.
Reilly glanced upwards. “What the hell is that shit playing in the background?”
“No idea,” said Gardener, following his partner’s gaze, “but for some reason it sounds familiar.”
Reilly nodded to continue. “Let’s get moving, otherwise we’ll be here all night.”
Gardener nodded, walking to the end of the corridor before venturing the only way he could, to the right. The end of that corridor led him into turning left. When they reached the end of that one, they had a choice.
Gardener stopped. The music was still bothering him. He definitely had no idea of the song or the band but the familiarity was haunting.
“What now, boss?”
Gardener’s phone sprung into life. He pulled it out of his pocket and noticed Dave Rawson’s number.
“There’s a door at the back, boss and it’s open, do you want us to go inside?”
“I think not, Dave. You and Colin stay at the door and make sure no one leaves. We’re not sure yet if this place is booby trapped in any way and I don’t want either of you risking your lives.”
“Sure?” asked Rawson.
“Yes,” replied Gardener.
“Will do.”
Gardener put the phone back in his pocket. “Right, Sean, time to split up. You take the left and I’ll go to the right.”
Reilly nodded but before he set off, Gardener spoke to him.
“And, Sean? No heroics. If there’s anything you don’t like the look of, get on the phone.”
Reilly nodded.
Gardener figured he’d be better off talking to the wooden panels. He walked further down the corridor, took a right and came across a door. He wasn’t too happy about the situation but he suspected he knew Roger Hunter well enough not to have rigged the place with explosives or anything dangerous. Hunter was on a mission and Gardener and Reilly were not a part of it.
Gardener opened the door and stepped into the cavern of the warehouse. As the door closed it suddenly hit him why the music was familiar.
It was strange and haunting and the lyrics contained something about the night, and turning right. And when something clicked in his head there would be trouble ahead.
Chapter Sixty-one
Liverpool, 1992, the Big Top all over again.
Or it might as well have been.
He was surrounded by mirrors. Tall ones, short ones, wide ones; round mirrors, oval mirrors, square mirrors. Wooden frames, metal frames, gilt edged surrounds. Frames with different colours: black, gold, white, chrome. The whole place was filled with mirrors and it was a fucking mess, like Anthony’s mind.
The overhead lights were reflected in each and every one of them. Some of the mirrors were normal and others were fairground attractions. He had seen a dozen different reflections of himself: normal, short, fat and dumpy with little or no head. Stretched out like the Peperami Man. He’d seen himself wide, thin; little legs, long legs. You name it, every variation possible he had seen.
Where the fucking hell had Roger Hunter found all of these? Some were free-standing, others were in corridors – some of them actually formed corridors instead of the wooden panels. Anthony would be lucky if he ever found his way out of the building.
But he wasn’t meant to. That wasn’t what Roger had in mind. Zoe, James and Michael were all dead. Logic stated that he would be next and it wasn’t because he was the only one left. Anthony had to die whatever the running order.
How to survive was the major problem here. Not only was the hall of mirrors unsettling him, the music was doing little for his state of mind. He had never heard that song on a good day, and doubted he ever would.
He relived the fateful day back in Liverpool when he’d been parted from his mother. On his own it had been unsettling, but he could have coped because he knew she was in there somewhere. He knew she would come to his rescue.
She wouldn’t today, though. There was no fucker coming to save him today.
But the awful music had spelled doom and gloom from the first time he’d heard it, and had done ever since.
All he needed now was a clown.
Anthony suddenly slunk to his knees, whimpering. Why had that thought entered his head? A clown was the last thing he needed now. He never, ever wanted to see a clown again for as long as he lived.
“No, no, no…”
Anthony dropped the pepper spray and syringe, covering his face with his hands.
“No, no… please don’t do this to me.”
Anthony snorted, almost choking with the size of the sobs. Why was it happening? Why did it keep happening?
But deep down, he knew the answer to that one.
In short, Anthony was a bastard. He had never cared about anyone but himself. And if the truth be known, neither had any of the DPA team, which was why they made such a good quartet. They were hard and brutal and were able to make split second decisions without emotion when it counted.
Which had done them absolutely no favours in the long run. It certainly hadn’t helped three
of them. And it was unlikely to benefit him, either.
The music suddenly stopped, spreading the whole place with a deathly silence.
Oh, God, no. Anthony glanced upwards: left, right, his head spinning like a top. He reached down to the floor, grabbing the syringe and the mace.
He wasn’t sure which he actually preferred – the silence or the music.
Suddenly, on the other side of the mirror, he heard a movement. It was slight and, if pressed, he would have said it was a footstep.
Anthony stopped breathing, trying desperately to rise to his full height without making a sound. One of his knees clicked, which sounded like a whip cracking. Anthony froze.
He glanced left and right, and up again, hoping to Christ whoever it was had not chosen to come around the other side of the mirror. Maybe they were doing exactly the same as him.
They? Who the hell were they? It could only be Roger Hunter. There was no one else in here. It was him and Roger. So that’s who had to be on the other side.
The music started again.
Somewhere in the night
Turning to the right
Something clicks inside of your head
A taste of mystery
Creeping all in
Shadows of the unknown dread
Superstitious feeling
Superstitious feeling
Anthony crouched back down, too terrified to move. He wanted to stay there forever, no matter how bad the situation, no matter how many mirrors, and no matter how many times he had to put up with that dreadful song. If he could stay here without moving, nothing bad would happen.
Not a chance. Whoever was on the other side of the mirror, moved; and the mirror moved slightly.
It was enough for Anthony. He knew he couldn’t stay there all night, or even the next five minutes. Because whoever was there, sounded like he was coming round.
Anthony made up his mind. It was now or never. No turning back. Time to grow a pair of bollocks.
He stood up straight, nearly dropping the mace.
“Oh, fuck…”
Regaining a little composure he eased off the top, raising the syringe in his right hand as high as it would go.
The flashing of a light
Slashes through the night
Changing colours in the face
You meet a stranger’s eyes
Gripping like a vice
Noises shouting out a face
Superstitious feeling
Running all around my head
Superstitious feeling
I don’t know why but I think that I’d be better off dead
Oh yeah
The words were haunting him. There were plenty of flashes of light and changes of colours.
Anthony took a deep breath, preparing himself.
In a split second he ran around the mirror; the lights suddenly dimmed, momentarily obscuring his view.
He raised his left hand and sprayed the mace into his opponent’s eyes.
A scream followed, hands gripping a face.
Anthony drove the syringe into Roger’s shoulder and pressed the plunger all the way home. He hoped that whatever was in there was enough to kill a dinosaur.
There’s trouble up ahead
My mind is flashing red
And evil’s just around the bend
You’re in a cold embrace
Lost without a trace
It’s getting very near the end
Superstitious feeling
Running all around my head
Superstitious feeling
I don’t know why I think I’m goin’ outta
My head
Anthony was back around the mirror within seconds. That’s all it had taken. Seconds. Evil was no longer around the bend. He had seen to that.
As the music came to an end, Anthony listened intently. He could hear nothing from the other side.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
He was so relieved. He had done it. He had survived an encounter with Godzilla.
Elated, Anthony ran back around the mirror to gloat. Job done.
Only it wasn’t.
The man bunched up in the foetal position at Anthony’s feet was not Roger Hunter.
Chapter Sixty-two
Reilly found Gardener on the floor, hunched up, his hands near his head but not covering it. His senior officer’s face was damp; his eyes were closed and slightly inflamed. He had a syringe in his shoulder with the plunger pressed home. His hat was turned upside about eighteen inches away from him, close to a can of pepper spray. He was unconscious.
“Stewart,” he called. He didn’t receive a reply and he didn’t think he would.
“What happened to you, son?” he said quietly, checking for a pulse. It was good. Gardener was still breathing.
Not knowing what was in the syringe, Reilly was very reluctant to move his partner. Who the hell had put Gardener’s life in danger? Roger Hunter? Reilly doubted it. Though he suspected Roger was responsible for the carnage, he really didn’t think he would put an officer’s life at risk and, in all honesty, Roger’s beef was not with the police.
That left Anthony Palmer. Perhaps he’d decided he had little left to lose and was prepared to go out in a blaze of glory.
Whoever had done it, sitting here trying to figure the matter out wasn’t helping either him or Gardener.
He pulled out his mobile and called the station. When the desk sergeant answered, Reilly went straight into the conversation.
“It’s DS Reilly. I have a man down.”
“Who?”
“The boss man, DI Gardener. We’re in pursuit at the industrial units in Harrogate. The St. James Business Park, about three miles out of the town centre on Grimbald Cragg Road. No idea what’s wrong but he’s unconscious with the biggest syringe I’ve ever seen sticking out of his shoulder.”
“Ambulance on its way.”
Reilly broke the connection. The music started again.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said to himself, glancing upwards. “If I find out who is responsible for this fucking racket I’m going to stick that syringe up his arse.” He glanced at Gardener. “Never mind what he’s done to you.”
Reilly checked his position. He was alone. He grabbed his phone and called Dave Rawson.
“What’s up?” asked Rawson.
“The boss man’s down, I need you in here, now.”
“Oh, Christ. Colin as well?”
“No, leave him at the door.”
Reilly called Bob Anderson next and issued the same instructions: Anderson in, Thornton out.
Reilly checked Gardener’s pulse again – still good. God only knew what was in the syringe but if luck was on his side it may only be a sleeping compound.
The question was, what did he do now? Stay with his friend and partner, or go in pursuit of the maniac responsible?
Chapter Sixty-three
Anthony was terrified, and in more trouble than he’d ever been in his life.
He was trapped in a maze of mirrors with literally no way out that he could see, being pursued by a madman, intent on ending everything; and he’d lost the only defence he had – the syringe and the pepper spray. He was being forced to listen to the world’s unluckiest song. To top it all, he’d probably killed someone.
Anthony snorted and rubbed the tears from his eyes. He’d turned left and right so many times in an effort to leave he was now dizzy, with no idea where he was. He glanced upwards but the criss-cross beams and the domed lights gave him no indication.
He stood in front of a mirror, glancing at the reflection. What a mess. He was thinner than usual, with his blond hair spiked up in places. His glasses were smudged, and his complexion as rough as sandpaper. The latest fashions that he was normally up to date with had gone. He now wore jeans and trainers with a black T-shirt and a padded jacket.
He glanced upwards once again, wondering where it had all gone wrong.
The music stopped and a voice broke the silence.
/> “Where’s your needle, Anthony?”
Anthony’s testicles shrunk, his spine bent, and his stomach swelled. His legs felt hollow but heavy. His bottom lip quivered.
“Turn around, son. Face up to your mistakes.”
Anthony did as he was told, slowly. What he saw took him close to fainting, and the brink of madness. He remembered thinking a short while ago – before he’d committed murder, again – that the last thing he wanted to see now was a clown.
“Oh… My… God!”
“Yes, Anthony, you might well need the help of your God to get out of this one.”
Roger’s laugh almost suited his demonic appearance. Dressed in a one-piece maroon suit, he had one hand on a false extended belly, and the other pointing directly toward the mirror, as if taunting. His face was bizarre: a long crooked nose, hollow eyes like that of a skull, and heavy make-up made him completely unrecognisable. God only knew what he had used to create the sweet, sickly smell.
Anthony backed away immediately, into the mirror, which was pretty solidly embedded into a wooden panel wall about twelve feet square. The rest of the area had more mirrors, and there were a number of entrances. With nowhere to go – it wouldn’t matter because Roger would find him anyway – he stood with his back to the mirror and his arms by his sides, his hands pressed so hard against the surface they were white.
Roger moved closer, to within six feet of Anthony. “But before we get to the point of you praying for help, I have a question for you.”
Anthony didn’t reply.
“Just tell me why, Anthony?”
He found his voice, however faint. “Why, what?”
Roger raised his hand and pointed his finger. “Stop taking liberties. We have very little time, so I want to know why you and your psychotic friends killed my brother and his wife?”
“What are you going to do to me?”
Roger flew at Anthony, driving his fist into the mirror at the side of his nephew’s head, smashing the glass. “Answer my question!” he shouted, so loudly and so severely that Anthony moved his head and tried ducking.