Songs of Dreaming Gods

by Meikle, William

  “That’s it. Stand back, I’m coming in,” Janis shouted. She was about to put her shoulder to the door when it started to swing open, and it was her that had to stand back.

  It wasn’t the boss. Someone, she didn’t recognize him, sat on the toilet, his trousers round his ankles, so fat that folds of his belly hung over the sides of the porcelain and covered his thighs as far as his knees. His face was almost perfectly round, the nose snout-like and flat, almost porcine and the eyes set far back behind fatty cheeks that looked ready to burst.

  The smell was thick, cloying and made Janis have to push down a gag reflex. The seated figure smiled showing a mouthful of tombstone green teeth and a fat, gray tongue that looked dead as any slab of stone. There was only malice in the smile, no humor at all.

  “Dae ye mind, hen,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “I’m having a shite here.”

  The man reached over and pulled the door shut. Once again, a shadow shifted behind the frosted glass.

  Before Janis could move the door swung open again almost immediately to show an empty lavatory. There was no sign of the seated figure, and the only movement was the swirling of fog in the high window above the cistern. The only clue that there had ever been anyone there was the lingering odor but even that quickly faded, leaving Janis standing on the landing, too shaken to even think of moving, wondering what had just happened. A shadow moved above her, and she looked up, startled, but only saw more fog swirling in a skylight high above. Looking up had broken her immobility, and she was able to step away from the closet door, keeping an eye on it to make sure it didn’t swing open again behind her.

  I don’t believe in ghosts.

  She kept telling herself that as she headed for the stairs up to the top floor.

  This flight was even harder work than the first. It seemed to go on forever. Janis started counting steps after the first ten, pushing through air that felt like thick treacle—when she got to twenty she knew something was far wrong as she knew, knew for a fucking fact, that there had only been sixteen steps here earlier. Even at thirty the top landing seemed farther away than when she’d started, and when she chanced a look back the stairwell fell away into a dizzying dark abyss behind her, an abyss that was slowly filling with swirling fog. She had a sudden attack of vertigo, a dizziness that threatened to overbalance her and send her plunging into that impossible hole below. She almost had no time to react, for the step on which she stood was already fading into insubstantial mist. She forced herself to move, to run, each breath tearing at her lungs, her legs straining, muscles burning, pumping her arms to keep the rhythm going. It became a marathon she was determined to finish. Slowly, step by step, painfully slowly, she got closer to the top of the stairs, even while the abyss crept ever nearer behind her.

  She heard a song rise up out of the deep, a deep voice, not Scottish, almost a bellow, putting everything it had into a song she almost felt she knew.

  He sleeps in the deep with the fish far below,

  He sleeps in the weeds in the dark,

  He dreams as he sleeps in the deep, in the cold,

  And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  The song welled up inside her, filling her with emotion—loss and despair and blackness. The fog below started to weave cold tendrils around her ankles. She slowed, faltered, wanting nothing more than to drop into the fog and be rocked to sleep by the song.

  She was still six stairs from the top landing.

  It’s now or never.

  With one final push, she threw herself up the remaining stairs in a desperate lunge—and even then, she almost didn’t make it, falling two steps short and having to throw her hands forward. She grabbed the bottom part of the banister, and wrapped her fingers round it. Cold wood creaked in her hand and for a bad second she thought the handrail wasn’t going to hold before she was finally, breathlessly, able to pull herself fully off the stairs and onto the landing.

  She lay panting for almost a minute before her heart calmed and her breathing returned to something approaching normal. She turned and looked back at where she’d been. Sixteen steps led down to the second-floor landing and she could see the stairwell down to the hallway below that. There was no abyss, no fog on the stairs. It had gone as quickly as the vision in the lavatory. All was quiet—whoever had been singing—if he had ever actually been there at all—had also gone as quiet as the rest of the house.

  What the hell is going on here?

  All of Janis’ instincts were now telling her to run, flee back down the stairs and out, before anything else unbelievable could happen. But there was still the problem of the locked main door to contend with, and she still hadn’t found either the boss, or the Forensics team. If they had got caught up in whatever was going on around here, they might be in even more trouble than she was. She got to her feet, slowly, not letting go of the handrail, half expecting the floor to give way to fog below her. She only headed for number six once she was sure, for the moment at least, of secure footing.

  The apartment door lay open, but there were three strips of yellow crime scene tape across the doorway. She felt her spirits lift slightly. This was a sign of normality. The Forensics lads were, or had been, here. She slipped through the gaps in the tape, taking care not to break the seal and stepped into the apartment.

  The fog still swirled thickly outside the main window, obscuring the view but the bodies were gone from the floor and sofa—that was something to be thankful for at least. The scene was puzzling nonetheless. It looked like Forensics had left in a hurry. Two full briefcases, samples still inside, sat on the carpet, and there was a fingerprint kit on the coffee table where somebody had started to take prints, then been interrupted.

  The blood stains on floor and doors was still all too evident, and it didn’t look like they’d been swabbed yet. Her professional eye told her that whatever had interrupted the team, hadn’t happened that long after their arrival.

  So, where the hell are they? And why did they just leave all their kit here?

  Something moved through in the kitchen area, and she heard the clink of glass on glass.

  Finally, somebody that might know what’s going on.

  “Hello? It’s Janis Lodge here. Have you seen the boss?”

  She got no answer, so headed through the archway to talk directly to whoever was there.

  The small room was empty. The table had been cleared of all the liquor and beer bottles and cans, although the strangely enticing poster of swirling color and red and black painted pentacle still hung above the stove. She heard the clink again, glass on glass, muffled, but this time definitely coming from the room at the end of the short hallway off the kitchen, a bedroom she remembered. It had been empty of anything but discarded clothes and two sleeping bags on her last visit.

  But that doesn’t mean there’s nobody there now.

  She walked forward. She had her hand on her pistol grip. She hadn’t even noticed herself doing it, instinct had kicked in again, a cop’s instinct, the one that smelled trouble coming. She passed a small washroom to her left, the one the blonde had been in when the trouble started she guessed. She’d have to have a look in there again too, now that she’d gotten that part of the story. But first she had to find out who was in the back room. Maybe they knew more than she did.

  Then again, that wouldn’t be hard.

  The door to the bedroom was shut, but she saw a shadow move in the gap between the door and the floor.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  She heard a scrape, something heavy being moved, and smelled shit and piss again. It was the big man from the lavatory, had to be. Somehow, he’d gotten upstairs ahead of her. She knew that wasn’t possible. She’d have seen him, but she had no time to think about it at that moment.

  “Look, I’ve had as much of this crap as I’m going to take,” she said. “Come on out so I can see you.”

  The smell got stronger, but nobody replied.

  “Right. That’s i
t. I’m taking you in,” she said. She kicked the door open and walked into the room, six feet in so that she could put her back to a wall and see any attack coming. The door swung wide then slammed shut behind her but she scarcely noticed.

  This wasn’t the bedroom she’d been in earlier. There was nobody else here, and there were four walls and a window—but that’s where any similarity ended. Where the previous room had been stark, bare walls and no curtains, this one was opulent. Gloriously colored rugs, Persian at a guess, lay strewn on a highly polished hardwood floor. Red velvet drapes hung on the walls, and silk sheets lay, half on and half off an ornately carved wooden bed. There was a new smell now, thick and cloying but also somehow sweet—cheap perfume.

  Tart in a bottle.

  The phrase of Janis’ grandmothers was the first thought that came to mind. The second came from about the same time frame—from a first viewing of a childhood favorite.

  I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.

  But no matter how strange the room might be, it was obvious that she was alone in it.

  Somebody’s playing silly beggars.

  She stepped back to the door, intending to go back through to the kitchen. The door handle turned in her hand and refused to give when she tugged at it. She turned to face the room with her back to the door as an old wind up gramophone in the far corner slurred and whined into action and a song echoed, too loud, around the room, the same deep booming voice she’d heard out on the stairs.

  He dreams where he rests in the deep far below.

  And the Sleeping God is dreaming where he lies.

  Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies

  The Sleeping God is dreaming where he lies.

  Outside the window the fog swirled and danced.

  5

  Constable Todd Wiggins was more than annoyed, he was as close to angry as he ever got. His mood hadn’t been helped by one of the worst lunchtime sandwiches he’d ever eaten, and coffee that tasted of burnt toast more than anything resembling a coffee bean. He could still taste it as he pulled up at the house on the corner of Church Street. He’d given them a full hour after leaving Sergeant Lodge, but when he got to the crime scene and stood outside the door the sarge was nowhere to be seen.

  I hope you’re not in a bar with the boss, sarge.

  As he’d told her earlier, he’d seen the boss’s face all too clearly at the scene that morning—the inspector had come back too early. All the squad knew the extent of the wounds he had taken and knew how lucky he was to be alive. They all even knew that it could have happened to any of them on any given weekend, given the number of drunks with knives they had on the streets. But they had expected Green to take the time to recover. To have him back so early—and on a case this big—was just asking for trouble.

  Not that Todd would be mentioning that to the chief any time soon. He just about felt comfortable talking about it to the sarge, but if he took it any higher up the chain he was likely to get a nosebleed. The sarge understood, she was a bit soft for the boss, everybody knew that even if she didn’t acknowledge it to herself.

  But now she’s risking her own job for him, and leaving me to explain it if anybody asks. That’s just not on.

  He stood outside for fifteen minutes before he decided he’d had enough. He went into the house and stood in the hallway.

  “Hello? Sarge? Are you in here?”

  He got no answer. The whole house felt cold and empty. The Forensics boys had been here earlier but it didn’t sound like they were still around. He went upstairs to the top floor. He had to slip through the crime scene tape to get in, but it looked like the tech squad had almost, if not fully, finished. The bodies were gone and there was fingerprint dust over most of the surfaces, especially around the areas of spatter. Todd knew the team would probably be back for more after analyzing what they’d found. There was always more to come back for.

  He treaded carefully as he made his way through to the kitchen, empty, and the back bedroom, also empty save for two sleeping bags and a lot, an awful lot, of dirty laundry.

  There was no sign of the sarge, and no sign she’d been there at all.

  He phoned her from the bedroom, but it just rang through to voicemail.

  “Sarge? I’m here at Church Street. Where are you? It’s…” he checked his watch. “Fourteen-twenty. I’ll stay until quarter to the hour then I’ll head back to the station. I’d better see you before the chief sees me.”

  He stood there, waiting to see if she’d answer, but there was only silence, too much silence in fact, reminding him that bloody murder had happened just next door not too long ago. He walked out, trying not to turn it into a run in his hurry. The strangely painted poster above the stove swung in the air as he passed and he was tempted to tear it down and crumple it up, but there was a fingerprint in the yellow interior of the inner design and the Forensics team hadn’t dusted it yet. He made a note to remind them of it and hurried out onto the landing.

  Once outside the apartment he was glad he was on his own. His retreat hadn’t been measured and calm, but rather like somebody in a hurry to get out. He’d even broken one of the crime scene tape strands in his rush and had to stick it back to the doorframe to avoid leaving it trailing in the hall.

  He was aware again of just how quiet the house felt. They had found no evidence that any of the other apartments were currently occupied, and he suspected that the occupants of number six might even have been squatting there illegally. He made a mental note to check the utility records and see if anyone had been paying any bills, it might be another way to get a lead.

  He was still thinking of that as he descended the stairs. Just as he turned to walk past the small communal lavatory, a remnant from one of the house’s earlier incarnations no doubt, the silence was broken as the cistern flushed. Old plumbing rattled and creaked throughout the whole property. It was all Todd could manage not to leap down the stairs and away.

  “Hello?” he said when the sounds died away. “Anybody there?”

  He couldn’t see anyone, and when he opened the door the small closet was empty, save for the smell, which was enough to make him back out quickly and shut the door again. He had noticed one thing though, there was no water in the white bowl, it was completely dry, if a bit grime-stained. Whatever had flushed, it wasn’t this unit.

  He was still slightly spooked as he went all the way down the stairs and back outside, and only got his composure back fully when he stood on the sidewalk in the bright sunshine, feeling the daily life of the town fill in around him.

  It felt as if he’d been away, not a holiday, nothing so pleasant, he felt like he’d been sent off on an enforced exile and he’d just come back. He didn’t like the feeling at all.

  He stood there for fifteen minutes letting the sun burn the feeling away and waiting, giving the sarge one last chance to turn up to do her job. When quarter to the hour came around and there was no sign of her, he gave up, and drove back to the station. He tasted burnt toast in his mouth, the remnants of his lunch.

  It tasted like ashes.

  6

  John woke slowly, confused and disoriented, sitting upright in the armchair. A cigarette, still smoking, sat on the edge of the ashtray, and at some point he’d drank some of the whisky. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it in his head, cheaper stuff than the single malts he was used to, headache juice. He was still in the dingy, low-rent version of the crime scene room. The television screen was showing random dancing static but apart from a low hissing there was no other sound.

  At least that bloody singing has stopped. But where the hell am I?

  He shouldn’t be drinking, certainly shouldn’t be smoking, not with a murder enquiry to run and with his head far from straight to start with.

  It all came back to him in a rush, the fog, the locked rooms, and this strange, almost the same, room in which he now found himself. He felt like he was losing his hold on reality.

  Is this
what the doctor meant when he said there might be mental instability? Because I can tell you right now for nothing, I’m feeling pretty fucking unstable.

  He had to talk to someone, anyone, but in particular he had to talk to his team, to Janis. He’d come to rely on her in the past few weeks, using her as a sounding board for his hopes, and fears, for his return to work.

  And what a great fucking first day back this is turning out to be.

  For once he’d remembered his phone and took it from his jacket pocket.

  They’ll be wondering where the hell I am. But what do I tell them?

  It was a moot point in any case, he was unable to get a signal, and he guessed that the phone’s batteries were completely flat. Whether it was something to do with his situation, or whether he’d just forgotten to charge the bloody thing again, he had no way of knowing.

  He put the phone back in his pocket. He was tempted to throw it against the wall but something had to be brought under control in this situation, and at least his temper was something he could manage, for now. As he moved he noticed the weight of the pistol in his lap, another sign that he wasn’t on form. He’d fallen asleep with a loaded weapon in his lap, at a murder scene. A bad guy could have walked up, lifted the weapon and shot him in his sleep and he’d have been caught napping, literally.

  Get a grip, Green. Making that mistake once was bad enough. To do it twice would just be stupidity.

  He holstered the gun and stood from the chair, dismayed to note that he instinctively lifted the cigarettes and lighter to take with him, old habits, dying hard. He glanced at the bottle of Scotch; it held no charm for him just then, something to be thankful for at least. But he gave in to a different impulse and lit a fresh smoke before stepping over to see if he could see anything out the window.