Cuts Both Ways

by Solomon Carter

  Seven

  The Albany Centre turned out to be a clutch of recently built peach-brick cells set around a central meeting room and office area, which the signage pretentiously described as ‘the hub’. Whatever it was once supposed to be the hub of, it certainly wasn’t the hub of much anymore. They had parked the Egomobile on the long knackered looking street of Nelson Road – a residential back street where weeds had been left to burst through the cracks in the pavement and paint left to peel and render left to crack. Apart from The Albany Centre, the only evidence of any money being spent on the area was on the new Islamic Community Centre across the street, which had been developed on the site of the old Admiral pub. Dan noticed that the waterworks nearby was falling into disrepair too.

  “The Westcliff which money forgot,” said Dan.

  “Could do with a lick of paint,” said Mark.

  “And this place could do with some improved security,” said Dan. The front of The Albany Centre was set with a high, modern, gun-metal coloured gate. There was a black plastic security lock with a keypad at one side. But the big gate had been left ajar. It didn’t inspire much confidence in the lead. Dan looked up at the unblinking eye of a CCTV camera mounted in the brick arch above the gate and smiled, not knowing if the eye was watching or whether it had been disconnected. But no challenge or crackle came from the intercom. He guessed everything was dead.

  “Do you get the feeling we’ve missed the boat?” said Dan.

  “How do you mean?”

  “This is Westcliff. Down there are three grey concrete tower blocks at the end of this street. Last week there was a drive-by shooting outside the primary school right below those tower blocks. That was the first drive-by I can ever remember since I came to this town. It’s all about the drugs, right? It always is. If this place was serious about running a drug rehab here they wouldn’t have left the main gate hanging wide open.”

  Mark nodded, taking it all in. And in they went, Dan taking the lead. They walked down a narrow lane of shiny restored cobbles to come out on the small yard space occupied by the flower-and-petal shaped cluster of modern brick cells around the central office and meeting room space. They had seen the set-up online. The Albany Centre proudly boasted its state-of-the-art therapy services and modern venue. But the online photographs had made it look substantial. Now they were here, Dan saw the whole place was like one of those old Matchbox cars. Miniature, and detailed and to scale, but you still couldn’t drive them. Dan wondered how people were supposed to live in such rabbit hutches.

  “Ex-cons would have loved this place. Home from home for them,” said Dan. They walked around the outskirts of the centre, their boot heels clumping across the cobbles. They soon found the signage pointing them to the entrance.

  “It’s so quiet here,” said Mark.

  “Yeah, isn’t it. Listen. When you looked online, did you see anything about the place being in trouble?” said Dan.

  “Not on their website, no.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Dan.

  They walked around to the front door, which was actually set into one side away from the front gate. It was a smoked glass affair with another intercom and a window which looked into a small office crammed with paperwork, box files and lever arch folders, all getting dusty. Dan scanned the small business signage around the door before he noticed the more informal handwritten notice Blu-Tacked to the window. It was curling at the corners.

  “BIG HEARTFELT THANKS TO EVEYRONE WHO SUPPORTED WHAT WE DO HERE. AND SINCERE APOLOGIES TO EVERYONE THE PROJECT IS LEAVING BEHIND. FUNDING OR NO FUNDING, THIS WORK MUST GO ON. LOVE YOU ALL, MARGIE xxx.”

  “Damn – the funders pulled the plug on the place,” said Dan. “We have missed the boat. Joanne said the place was part-council funded. It figures. They must have pulled out the money and stuck it somewhere else. Why is everything so half-arsed?”

  “Or maybe they put the money nowhere at all,” said Mark. “Austerity and all that. The councils are still all skint.”

  “Meanwhile this new building is being wasted too,” said Dan.

  “Not for long, Dan. It’ll end up as a squat before anyone knows different.”

  Dan looked at Mark from the corner of his eye and gave a curt nod. Dan’s eyes gleamed at the suggestion. Mark didn’t stop to think what he’d said, but Dan saw there was a chance Mark had hit the nail on the head. The gate had been open after all.

  He leaned close to the window and saw stacks of paperwork abandoned on the office desks. He caught sight of memos related to funding and budgets amongst all the other rehab documents and a letter explaining to staff the process of the project closure. Like instructions on how to die. It was detailed and too far away for him to read, but by now Dan knew all he needed to. The Albany had been an idea abandoned before it had time to work. He wondered what had happened to Alma Poulter and the rest of her live-in rehab mates. How would their mental health be after a lack of funds had seen them turfed out of their home? The question barely needed answering. Dan could only hope Alma was alive and well. Just as he was thinking those sentiments, Dan imagined he saw a glimpse of movement on other side of the glass. Just a hint, a blur, on the other side of the internal office window. The office had two windows; the one Dan looked through, and one adjoining the dark internal corridor on the other side. Dan waited and watched, peering through the office and the other window through to the dim space beyond. He tensed in eager anticipation, but still saw nothing. It had probably been his imagination. The office paperwork looked so dusty. Dan guessed a couple of months had passed since Margie – the project manager or whatever – had last been inside for closing up. There was no ‘For Sale’, not as yet. No new planning notices or under new ownership signage either. But if there wasn’t going to be any successor project to replace it, then the place would probably be turned into micro-flats or some such nonsense. Bedsits without the B word.

  “Let’s take a walk around,” said Dan. “See what we can see.”

  “But we’re already trespassing,” said Mark.

  “True. So we may as well find something for our trouble.”

  Dan left Mark by the office window and turned left around the curling edge of the building. The living quarters were set around the centre like petals or the teeth of a cog wheel. Each cell had one window and in most the curtains had been left closed. There was some graffiti around already, a few crushed beer cans left between the cogs, and the smell of piss. It didn’t take long before the dregs held sway. Next he saw an abandoned hypodermic.

  “Watch your feet around here,” said Dan. “Needles.”

  Mark saw the abandoned syringe and stepped well away from it, just as Dan slowed to look more closely at one of the other living quarter’s rooms. One of the teeth of the cog. In this one he found a gap between the curtains, with enough light shining through to give him something of a view. Dan sidled up to the window, pressed his face up close to the dirty glass and shimmied left, then right to get a decent look into the cell. The room was mostly empty, but there were still a few small objects on a plain white chest of drawers at the back. Bangles, maybe. A bit of make-up too. Mascara wands and a compact of some kind… Dan frowned as he studied them closely in the half light. Nothing he saw looked half as dusty as what he’d seen in the office. Dan leaned hard to one side to get a better view of the door between the cell and the centre of the cog. His eyes widened when he saw a dark gap between the door and the frame. The inner door – the cell door – was open. First the gate, now the inner door… A cool, uncanny, sensation set him moving. He left Mark by the window and walked around the next few ‘teeth’ until he reached an estimated target. There. He’d found what he was looking for… A heavy fire exit door, smoked glass with a push bar mounted halfway down the inside. Looking at the push bar, he saw it had been stuck – pressed in – at its lowest point, possibly by force, which meant, with a bit of luck…

  Dan teased the edge of the door with his fingernails and found it prominent of the frame
. If the building was sealed the door should have been flush. He scratched at it and pulled until Mark caught his attention. “Here… Try this,” said Mark.

  Mark handed him a debit card.

  “That only works in the movies,” said Dan.

  “If that door is already open, it should work just as well.”

  Dan nodded and took the card. He slid and scraped it into the narrow gap, then levered the card gently so as not to snap it. The door slid open just enough for Dan to pull it the whole way by clawing at it with his fingers. A dry musty smell poured out from the interior. Hot air, unpleasant and tainted with body odour and something like rotten food. Dan screwed his nose up and stuck a boot on the doorstep.

  He looked back at Mark.

  “You coming in?”

  Mark looked around the narrow courtyard and nodded. “I think so.”

  They found a warm and musty circular corridor ringing the interior of the building, between the outer teeth of the cells and an inner space beyond. Doors for each of the living quarter areas lined the outer wall while posters and motivational slogans were pasted to the inner wall. The inner wall was marked by bone-dry water cooler, and a few doors along the corridor. Dan tried one of the doors and found a cleaning cupboard, pitch black but empty. He tried another and found the oval-shaped meeting room, the so called ‘hub’. Inside was a jumble of fabric covered chairs around the edge of the room along with stacks of magazines. The central meeting table was oval too. A couple of meeting-table chairs had been left upturned, while others were missing altogether. Dan walked out and let the door swing shut behind him.

  “We’ll check the doors of the all living accommodation as we go.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Mark.

  “I’m never sure about anything I do. But we’re going to do it anyway.”

  Dan led the way and yanked each handle down and shook each door to make doubly sure they were locked. Each one they tried was closed and locked tight. Dan considered kicking one down just to see what it revealed, but there was an easier way… He’d seen one door ajar. The room with the make-up on the chest of drawers. He even had the vaguest inkling of what he was going to find. An intuition, perhaps. Dan sped up as he went, walking a third of the way back around the circular corridor until he found it. The door ajar. His eyes traced the gap until he saw the way the door had been held open. A folded wedge of grey cardboard had been stuffed between the back of the door and the frame at the top, holding it ajar.

  Dan took one look along the circular corridor before he set a hand on the door. He was about to pull it open when he spied the sign on the door. It was a small whiteboard mounted in a frame and handwritten with a marker. The name on the sign said ‘Angie’.

  Angie? Dan hissed at himself. That would teach him for being too optimistic about someone who’d been lost for three months already. He should have learned by now, no case offered itself up too easily, no matter how much they hoped it would. Never mind. Perhaps if they could track this Angie, she might lead them to Alma. Dan opened the door wide and walked inside. The living quarters of the cell were barely big enough to be justifiably compared to a bedsit. Apart from the modern styling, the comparison with a prison cell hadn’t been too wide of the mark. The single bed had been left unmade, the duvet crumpled and piled over itself. There were traces of make-up left on the folded pillow. Smears and streaks. Takeaway coffee cups had been flattened under foot and there was a faintly sour-milk smell in the air, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the smell of stale breath and body odour. The smell of sleep. Dan walked to the chest of drawers and looked at the items of make-up – the mascara, lipstick and the compact. There was no dust on the surfaces. Yes, there was some on the floor in the corners and at the edges of the room, but nothing anywhere else. There was a handwash basin in the corner of the room, with some water in it. A small plastic pint bottle of milk laid steeping in the cold water, tilted back against the tap. Dan dipped his finger into the water in the basin. It was just about cold, and the use-by date on the milk was set for the day after tomorrow. Dan’s eyes widened and he looked at Mark.

  “What?” said Mark.

  “This is someone keeps their milk fresh. Cold water in the sink… Someone still lives here.”

  “The squatters didn’t wait long, then,” said Mark.

  “No… or maybe they didn’t ever leave in the first place,” said Dan.

  Mark frowned in confusion, but Dan had already moved on. His swiped a hand at the duvet and looked beneath the mattress for anything hidden away. Any clues to the occupier. The bed was a divan, the type with a fabric covered frame and a single storage drawer set into it. Dan pulled the drawer open and saw a screwed-up jacket and a couple of scrunched up bags, a handbag and a satchel. He opened each and shook them open over the floor, but nothing fell out.

  “Look in that chest of drawers, will you?” said Dan. “But be careful of needles. We know the girl’s into her dance culture. Probably means she’s into pills and powder. But who knows? She might have changed. She’s been in a rehab.”

  Mark grimaced and gingerly opened the top drawer. Predictably, he saw a few pieces of screwed up underwear and strips of what looked like prescription tablets. He prodded one pack and read the word Microgynon on the top. He’d seen something similar in Joanne’s handbag, seen her popping them some mornings. He didn’t need to ask, he guessed. The pill. Not the illicit drugs Dan had been on about. Contraceptives. He flicked the strips out of the way, grimaced and dug deeper still. He set about picking between sets of knickers and bras. Behind him, Dan started to push the bed drawer back into place, but then seemed to think better of it. You never knew… He pulled the drawer out and yanked it completely free of the divan then set it aside on the floor. He lay down to peer inside the dark empty space left by the drawer and saw the exposed inner construction of the bed. The wooden bars of the frame and the screws and staples. And there, on the right-hand side of where the drawer had been, bound to a section of the wooden frame by a length of yellowing elastic, was a small battered, creased book. It looked something like a diary or a journal. Dan had expected drugs, a mobile phone maybe, so a battered old diary was something of a surprise. But it had been well hidden, which counted for a lot. Dan pulled his head away from the gap in the divan and stuck his hand deep inside to prod and pull at the elastic.

  “Hold up, Mark. I’ve found something.”

  Mark had pulled a long stringy stocking from the drawer. He pulled it taut and saw it was made of netting. It was a type of stocking he’d heard of but never seen before, and here it was, in the flesh – having probably been on flesh and not washed since… Mark’s eyes widened and he swallowed.

  “Mark?” Dan looked up and saw the boy frozen in shock and awe. He tutted.

  “Now I know what you’ll be asking Joanne for this Christmas. Put it back and behave yourself. I think I’ve got something better than that.”

  “What? Oh,” said Mark.

  Mark dropped the stocking back in the drawer. He stuffed it under a bundle of underwear as if to bury it, and slammed the drawer shut. He glanced at his hands and at the hand basin, but he saw the milk in the water and thought better of it.

  “This damn thing’s not so easy to get at…” said Dan, struggling. As he shifted around on the floor to get a better position, the shadows in the gap outside the bedroom door darkened by degrees. Dan forced his arm deeper, pressing his chest hard into the floor.

  “Almost there… Let me see…” Dan’s fingers threaded between the elastic and pulled it apart. Beneath the binding his fingers found something besides the book. Something smooth and cool and covered in plastic. He teased it out and a small vial shaped bottle tipped into his palm. Next came the book. Its cover felt smooth in most places, but there was a semi-torn ridge along the surface, and the corners were bumped and creased. Dan pulled his arm free, rolled up and looked into his hand. The little book fell open in his palm as he looked at the brown plastic pill bottle. Th
e tablets inside looked like the kind he remembered from infections and illnesses in his youth. Capsules with powder inside, each side of the capsule a different colour. There was no label on the bottle, but the tablets looked medicinal. Dan let the bottle fall to the floor as he looked at the book. Tucked inside the first page was a sizeable wedge of cash, held in a tight folded bundle by a large paperclip. Dan looked at the money. He guessed it was close to a grand, possibly more. He ignored the cash and scanned the scrawl-filled pages, seeing a mixture of ink colours, some writing faded with age, some new. It seemed like an endless list of jumbled information. He tried to make sense of it, and found a mixture of names, and numbers within the jumble. And all of it had been written in the same, slanting bubble writing. A female hand. “What is this?” he muttered. The darkness behind the open door moved again – and the door was noticeably bumped. Mark jolted upright, his whole body jerking forward against the chest of drawers. Dan grabbed everything he’d found, and in one quick move, bent low and hurled the items back into the heart of the divan. There was no time to replace the drawer. Instead he leapt up to his feet and stood in front of it to block the view. He tensed, his heart thudding hard against his rib cage. Damn it. The open doors. He should have seen this coming – he should have seen it all along.

  The door swung in hard and clattered against the wall. The man standing in the doorway was lithe and bathed in shadow. He looked wiry with a mawkish face and bright, solemn eyes. The kind of eyes which took in every detail. Dan spread his stance wider to hide the drawer behind his feet. He wondered how long the man been hiding in the corridor.

  “Nice place you’ve got here. Very modern,” said Dan. “Not so hot on the interior decorating, mind.”

  The man turned his waspish gaze on Mark, still standing by the chest of drawers, then his eyes fixed back on Dan. He was wearing a denim jacket with the collar pulled up high about his neck. There was a tattoo on the side of his throat, winding up like ivy towards his ear and the side of his skull. His hair was cropped and thinning. The guy could have been anywhere between twenty-seven and forty-two. Looking at him, life had taken its toll. The guy had a weathered, tanned face, and a tough demeanour. Qualities which were only underlined when he stuck a big hand into his jacket pocket. Dan’s eyes widened and he glanced at Mark.