He switched on the engine and the headlights, but remained there thinking. The seat was wet through, his feet felt as though they were wrapped in soggy rags, and when he delved into the breast pocket of his coat for a cigarette, his fingers touched soaked mush. He swore. Loudly.
He reached for the cloth he always kept on the backseat, then pulled out the Nikon from the coat pocket he’d shoved it into when fleeing from the park. As he dried it off he prayed that the camera had survived the ducking.
The drive back to Earl’s Court was wretchedly uncomfortable, not even his new-found outrage managing to warm him. They’ll get it, the bastards, he promised himself. They’ll get what’s coming to them. You don’t screw with the Press and get away with it, no sir. He grinned maliciously. So you wanted to keep out of the public eye, did you? Just wait and see what happens when your ugly wrinkled mug appears in the paper, page one, no less, across three columns at least! Nobody pisses on Joe Creed. Nobody.
He swung into the mews, the jeep’s beams highlighting the bumpy cobblestones, and came to a halt in front of his garage doors, parking tight, sideways on. He was too cold, tired and shaky to garage the Suzuki. Besides, it wasn’t the first time it’d had to spend a night in the open – a few beers seemed to narrow the garage’s entrance too much for precision parking.
Picking up the cloth-wrapped camera, Creed slid over to the passenger door and stepped out. He walked around the corner to his front door, key pointed like a homing device.
But the door was already open.
He gawped and became aware of the banshee-like wailing, a sound that a child in agonising pain might make.
‘Sammy!’
The stark cry was left ringing in empty air as Creed dashed into the house and up the stairway. Dread on arriving at his own home had become an almost familiar sensation by now, but he didn’t pause to dwell upon the fact. Lights shone from the kitchen and lounge, but both rooms were empty. So was the bedroom. And so was the bathroom.
He realised that the terrible wailing was coming from the floor above.
‘Sam?’ This time his voice was hushed. ‘Sammy?’ Louder, but not much.
He entered the kitchen and looked up into the vortex that was the spiral staircase, the dark circle at the top tinged orange. He trod the metal steps warily at first, but his ascent gathered momentum when the wailing over his head rose in pitch to an awful squawking screech.
There was no light on in the room directly above, but amber glowed from the darkroom doorway. Something hung there in the opening, silhouetted as it swung and twisted from side to side.
‘No, no, no . . .’ Creed muttered as he approached, incredulity as well as fear intoned in the word. Who would do something like that? You’d have to be . . . you’d have to be inhuman . . .
He turned on the room’s light and stood there as if receiving an electric shock, his trembling fingers still gripping the switch. The thought occurred to him that he’d have to search the garage area for a hammer.
He’d need that to prise out the nail that pinned his cat over the door.
17
Life is full of crises, we all know that. It’s how we learn, how we grow. They help form character, mould the man (or woman), as it were. As an opposite to good times, they even help us appreciate life a little more; and a person without strife is a person without passion, for trauma both tests and strengthens moral fibre, becomes a measure of human depth. There is no adversity on this earth that cannot be overcome by fortitude and positive will. Or so we’re led to believe.
Now, to be chased through a park in the dead of night by an emaciated ghoul and a herd of trees, to play cat-and-mouse in freezing pond water, to be stabbed but not stabbed by a dagger-like finger, then to return home and find your pet cat nailed to a doorframe and your only son missing is not, mercifully, a common experience to us all, but it is one that would sorely test the stoutest of spirits. Creed, as we know, does not possess the stoutest of spirits.
He didn’t go to pieces – at least, not right away. First he found a hammer, then he wrapped his coat around Grin to stop the poor animal scratching his arms and face to shreds. After that he levered the long nail from the wood and the cat’s tail, while holding on to the squealing creature beneath the coat with one arm. Once free, Grin didn’t bother with thanks: she shot from Creed’s arm in a blur of furry speed and disappeared down the well of the spiral staircase. Where she went after that the photographer had no idea, and he made no effort to find out; his prime concern was the whereabouts of his son.
The folded piece of paper, coloured orange by the darkroom light, lay on the floor in the doorway as if the cat had been used as a pointer to it. Creed picked it up, his fingers smearing blood on to its surface. He opened it and read:
That’s when he went to pieces.
So an hour later we find Creed ruminating in the kitchen, the bottle of Bushmills in front of him down to its last quarter, the room itself thick with fug, the ashtray on the table piled high with brown cigarette stubs.
‘Bastards,’ he murmurs to himself, not for the first time in that long, hysterical, then lachrymal, then guilt-ridden hour. How could he have been so stupid? he asks himself. What the fuck was he going to do? How was he going to get Sammy back? What was he going to tell Evelyn?
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
He drains the whiskey in the tumbler and pours another. Before drinking he fumbles with a cigarette paper, overloading it with tobacco, scattering flakes across the table, into the booze. It takes two hands to hold the match steady. What a night!
The liquid no longer hurts his throat when he swallows; neither does it revive his spirits. I’m dead, he groans inwardly. Evelyn will kill me. If she doesn’t, they might!
His head sags, nods once, jerks up again. It sags again, stupor at last beginning to dull everything. His eyelids are too heavy, they start to close.
Footsteps on the stairs . . .
‘The door was open,’ she said quietly.
He eyed Cally with disbelief, amazed (and wide awake again) that she had the nerve to confront him. Her hair tonight was tied into a bunched tail at the back, leaving her face exposed, somehow guileless. Beneath her beige raincoat she wore a soft black polo-neck that emphasized the clean curve of her jaw. She looked good and he hated himself for noticing.
‘You . . .’ he said, the word accusing.
‘I’ve closed it behind me. You’re quite safe.’
‘I’m . . . safe?’ He may have been wide awake now, but his thoughts were not yet together.
‘For the moment,’ she added, but not for assurance. ‘Can I have some of that Scotch?’ She nodded towards the bottle.
‘Irish,’ he corrected. ‘It’s Irish.’
She came all the way into the room and he couldn’t make up his mind if it was sympathy or disgust he saw in her eyes. He straightened in his chair, palms flat on the table, cigarette jutting from his mouth. Cally looked around for another glass, walking over to a wall cupboard and looking inside.
‘Below,’ he told her.
She knelt and took out a tumbler that matched his, then brought it to the table and poured herself a drink. She swallowed half before saying anything else. ‘You don’t look so good,’ she commented.
Creed leaned back in his chair and managed a crooked smile. ‘I don’t look so good? Really? You know what? I don’t feel so fucking good!’
He was on his feet, the chair toppling over behind him, his face livid, his knuckles white-ridged and aimed at her.
Cally took two steps back, her glass nearly slipping through her fingers. He came around the table towards her and she backed away, pulling out a chair and positioning it between them.
‘Joe, please calm down. Please calm down.’
He drew some satisfaction from the light of fear in her eyes.
‘You want me to calm down, you fucking bitch? You kidnap my son and you want me to calm down?’ He grabbed the back of the chair and tossed it aside. Cally retreat
ed around the corner of the kitchen table and held out a hand to ward him off.
‘You’ve got to listen to me, Joe. You mustn’t blame me for this, I’m trying to help you. If you don’t want Samuel to be hurt you must listen to me.’
He stopped, dearly wanting to throttle the life out of her, but not quite sure if he had the strength right at that moment. His anger had not dissipated, but concern for his son and his own weariness dimmed it. ‘You drugged me the other night, didn’t you? You dropped something into my drink that made me see things that weren’t there.’
Perhaps in some perverse way she thought the truth might help him trust her a little. ‘I mixed something in your tobacco, Joe. Not enough for you to notice, but enough to have an effect. Can we sit down and talk?’
‘Not until you tell me why you did it?’ His voice was low and his fingers flexing.
‘To frighten you.’
‘Shit – why?’ He took a step towards her and she backed away again. Creed managed to restrain himself, but only just.
‘To soften you up, to scare you. It was a mild hallucinogen – no lasting effects. It helped them put thoughts – bad thoughts – into your mind.’
‘Jesus, I guessed it was something like that!’ He shook his head tiredly. ‘For a while there I thought I was going nuts. I . . . I’ve got to sit down.’ He did so, shakily, using the chair he’d just thrown aside. He stretched across the table for his drink and gulped it back.
If she was afraid, Cally no longer showed it, although her movement as she took the seat opposite him was steady, wary.
He watched her for a little while and when she picked up the cigarette that had been burning the table since falling from his lips earlier, and offered it to him, he regarded it suspiciously.
‘It’s okay,’ she promised. ‘The tobacco’s clean. Your tin was emptied, the tobacco replaced. Look at all those others you’ve smoked tonight.’
He took the cigarette and revived it with short drags. ‘Where is he?’ he asked finally, forcing calmness upon himself.
‘Safe. For the moment.’
He lunged across the table (so much for forced calmness), his hands reaching round the back of her neck to pull her towards him. Their faces were only inches from each other as he all but spat the question at her again: ‘Where is he?’
Cally tried to pull his wrist away, but he merely tightened his grip. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said without pleading.
‘Answer me.’
‘If you harm me they’ll kill him.’
His fingers loosened as if in reflex, although he continued to hold her there against the table. ‘Who’re they? The two freaks in the park couldn’t have taken him – they wouldn’t have had time to get back before me. Besides, they’re probably in the slammer by now.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘They got out of the park?’ He let go of her neck completely, but she pulled off only an inch or so.
‘Joe, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. These people aren’t . . .’ She paused, as if searching for an appropriate word. ‘Ordinary,’ she finished limply, as though the description were inadequate.
‘Sure. One’s a vampire, right?’
She said nothing.
He lounged back in his chair and drew on the cigarette. ‘So who did take Sammy? You?’
‘I came so he wouldn’t be too frightened.’
‘That was the idea – get me out of the way, then snatch him. You knew he was here because you’d spoken to him on the phone.’
‘If you had handed over the film this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘But you didn’t know I wasn’t going to.’
‘Not until you got to the park, no.’
‘So you kidnapped my son for insurance, just in case I didn’t deliver.’
She straightened and picked up her glass. She closed her eyes when she drank.
‘They can have the negs and prints,’ he told her. ‘They can have whatever they like – anything. I’ll guarantee never to mention any of this to anyone. I haven’t got much money, but I’ll scrape up whatever I can. They can have that too. All I want is Sammy returned and for me to be left alone.’
‘They don’t trust you.’
‘Then what’s the alternative? There’s nothing more I can do.’
‘They’ll have to talk to you before they decide.’
‘Maybe I should just go to the Law.’ He said it as if thinking aloud.
Cally slammed down her glass, spilling whiskey. ‘Don’t even think of doing that! Oh God, you mustn’t even consider it.’
He blinked, taken aback by the vigour of her outburst. ‘Then you’d better tell me who these people are and what they are and why that crazy bastard wants his wrinkled kisser kept out of the newspapers. I mean, I can understand his shame at the family connection – if there is one – but he can hardly be blamed for what Mallik did before the last World War. What the hell is the big deal?’
‘For your own sake it’s better that you don’t know anything about them. They want to be left alone.’
‘So did Garbo, but things don’t always work out that way. What are they up to? Look, at least tell me if the man is related to old Nick. Nicholas Mallik,’ he added on seeing her confusion.
‘Yes,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘They’re related. But that’s as much as I can tell you.’
‘It’s something. What do I do now?’
‘I’ve told you – you give them what they want. After they’ve talked to you.’
‘Why can’t I just hand it over to you right here and now?’
‘Believe me when I say I wish you could. Unfortunately you have to do it their way.’
‘And if it’s a set-up? They’ll have me as well as my son.’
‘You’ve no choice. You did before, but now you haven’t. I’ll stay with you tonight.’
‘To help me make up my mind?’
She shook her head. ‘I keep telling you – you have no choice. I’m just here to make sure you do nothing rash.’
‘How could you stop me?’
‘Perhaps I couldn’t. But this way we’ll know.’
Not if I beat the shit out of you first, then call the police, he thought. ‘Have you got a weapon of some kind on you?’ It would have been silly to put the question casually, so he didn’t even try.
‘Forget about attacking me, Joe. You’re too tired for that. Anger helped you before, but most of that’s gone, hasn’t it? You’re exhausted.’
‘It’s been a long day.’ And he realised the earlier weariness had returned.
‘You’re very tired, Joe.’
‘What’re you – a hypnotist?’ His glass felt peculiarly heavy when he lifted it. The whiskey tasted sour.
‘It’s just that I can see how exhausted you are. It must be hard to think straight in your state.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘Your clothes are damp, did you realise that? Were you too tired to notice?’
The glass was too much of a burden, so he put it down. ‘Who are you, Cally? What’s your part in all this?’
She may have given him an answer – he definitely heard her say something – but his brain was closing down. It had been a long day. Sweet Judas, it had been a long life. ‘What’d you say?’ he asked, attempting to straighten his shoulders.
‘It’s all right to sleep, Joe.’
‘No. You said something else . . .’
‘I said I’m Lily Neverless’ granddaughter.’
‘. . . Yeah . . . that’s what I thought you said . . .’
His head rested against his arms on the table. Creed slept.
18
She had left the note on the table, close to where he slumbered. It was the first thing he saw when he woke.
He groaned and ran a hand through his tangled hair. His clothes stank. His body stank.
Why were they always leaving him notes? he wondered as he unfolded the small sheet of paper. Why couldn’t they just tell h
im things face-to-face? It was an address. He assumed he was supposed to go there, although nothing was mentioned to that effect.
Creed eyed the dregs of his whiskey, a dismal and solitary sight in the cold light of morning. He noticed her glass was no longer on the table. In the sink and washed of fingerprints, he mused. He examined the address again. Handwritten, in capital letters. Was he really supposed to go there?
He jerked upright when the phone rang.
Blood drained from his head when he stood too quickly and he swayed there by the table for a moment or so, one hand resting there for support. The telephone insisted and he made his unsteady way over to it. Anger and fear were bubbling by the time he snatched the receiver from its hook.
‘You’d better listen to—’ he began to say.
‘How is he, Joe?’ interrupted Evelyn’s voice. ‘Has he had his All-Bran?’
‘Evelyn?’
‘Samuel has another mother?’ The phone seemed hot with her impatience. ‘Did he sleep all right?’
‘Evelyn, do you know what time it is?’
‘Yes, it’s four minutes to ten. What’s the matter with you?’
He glanced at his wristwatch, but cheap doesn’t buy waterproof. The hands had stopped at forty-three minutes past midnight. Nevertheless the clock on the mantel swore truth to his wife’s words.
‘He’s, uh, yeah, he’s fine,’ he said into the mouthpiece.
‘Does he want to talk to me? Put him on, Joe.’
‘No,’ he replied too quickly. ‘He’s gone out for a walk. To get me a newspaper. He wanted some chocolate.’
‘He’s not allowed chocolate. Dear God, didn’t he tell you that? Do you want him to balloon up again? What on earth are you thinking of?’
‘He can’t get much, I didn’t give him a lot of money.’
She was only partially placated. ‘Probably off his diet because of stress. Is he missing me, Joseph? Did he say he wants to come home? He must be miserable.’
‘He’s okay. Quite chirpy really.’
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