“Fucking move!” Stakowski screamed, and Martyn finally shifted. He ran, Stakowski with a hand at his back, and then there was a cry–
Stakowski spun – Anna had tripped, gone sprawling. Crosbie and Wayland had already turned, reaching down to grab her and heave her bodily at him. Stakowski caught her, reeling back under the weight, as the Spindlies lunged at Wayland and Crosbie. One touched its fingers to Crosbie’s temple; he screamed and fell.
“Bastard–” Wayland avoided the first lunge at him, spinning and firing, half a dozen rounds slammed into the Spindly Man, but it hardly even slowed; just gathered itself over him and dived, hands reaching for his face. Wayland was screaming too now; Crosbie was on his knees, hands to his face, blood running through his fingers.
Movement to Renwick’s side: McAdams, backing calmly up, firing again and again, every one a hit but changing nothing, until her Spindly – she could tell by the bullet-hole in its forehead – reached out, fingertips sinking into McAdams’ chest. McAdams screamed; his arms flew out, his gunhand swung towards her and the Glock fired wild, again and again.
Stakowski saw it, of course. How could he
not
be watching out for her, whatever the circumstances? As soon as Martyn bailed out of the window after Anna Stakowski turned. He saw other officers falling, guns useless, the Spindly Men dropping them with the merest touch of a long, clawlike hand, but it was Renwick he sought and found, just as McAdams’ gun fired wild, and when the first bullet hit her, Stakowski thought of body armour, that it’d keep her safe, but then she took two more hits and there was blood, and that silly peaked cap that’d made her look like a girl playing dress-up flew off and she was falling, and that was it, the end of Mike Stakowski as a copper. Oath, rank and duty fell away. Only one thing mattered and it was bleeding out on the canteen floor. Ashraf ran in front of her firing; a Spindly hand raked across his face and he was shrieking, thrusting his pistol into his mouth and firing–
Stakowski shouted at Griffiths and his sister to fucking well
run
, and then that was it, job done, duty discharged, and he ran across the canteen floor, firing the Glock empty at the bastards as he went until he fell to one knee beside her, reloading the useless bastard gun at them and firing again, again, again, bullet cases raining on the floor, useless but it was all he had to keep the bastards off her even for a minute, and he fired one-handed while the other hand reached out, grasped her shoulder and tightened on it, just so that she’d know.
A
LLEN WASN’T AFRAID
as he ran. He knew where he was going – across the lawn and then through the woods. The path was nearby. The ground was uneven, but he didn’t stumble, as if his feet were guided. And of course, they were.
This was about
him
. It was his job, fixing this. Always had been. The police, the rest – they’d been required, to get him here, right place, right time – but they’d played their part. It was him now; him alone. He’d been born for this; this was what they’d given him the Sight for.
“Allen!” Vera, behind him. Go away, big sis. She wasn’t needed either now. Not for this. She was free. She thought they were heading back down the hill, away from here; well, let her. He knew better.
He wasn’t surprised when he looked up the path towards Warbeck and saw three small boys in short trousers, their backs to him. He blinked sweat from his eyes and they were gone, but, as if he hadn’t already known, his path was clear.
This could be the last time. Pay off his debts and retire. A normal life, whatever that was. If he could do that, he’d face whatever it was in Warbeck and be glad.
Something – he glanced at his left wrist; his watch was gone. He laughed. It didn’t matter. The watch was nothing. Replaceable.
Chosen. I was chosen. I always knew that
. He was walking now, fast.
The dead chose me to talk with them: that’s special, but not unique. This is. I’m here to finish this. To give them rest. Of course that’s it. What else could it have ever been?
“Allen!”
He kept going; it’d take too long to explain to her. It had to just be done. He followed the pathway between rows of silent rowan trees. And then he was through, and the Warbeck building was in full view at last.
Ranks of windows, some broken, some blinded with chipboard or tin sheeting, some glinting like dead, unblinking eyes, beneath twin gables that rose like horns above the façade. Tin sheeting, like the windows of the houses on Shackleton Street
–
He stopped, looked down. The gravel rippled and swam like the bed of a fast clear stream. Deep breath; the rippling stopped.
“Allen!” Vera, her vaunted elocution fraying, the Kempforth burr she hated coming through. He walked. Gravel gritted underfoot; weeds, sprouting from the cracked surface, snatched at his ankles.
Stone steps, flanked by stone lions on plinths. Above the lions twin pillars supported a stone marquee, the words WARBECK HOUSE engraved on it.
And beneath the marquee, recessed into an archway, a set of wooden double doors. In front of them stood Johnny, Mark and Sam, their backs to him again.
“Allen!” Vera, close now. Wind, howling
The wind, and Vera’s voice, died. Thick silence spread out and the double doors swung open to reveal a black, aching void that flowed out, down the steps and up over the façade of Warbeck House. And then the dark engulfed Allen too, and there was only blackness until a pool of light formed, illuminating the three boys as they swivelled to face him; faces wizened and eyeless, fretted lips drawn back from yellowed teeth.
Go in, Alan.
You have to go in. Find what waits for you and do what has to be done.
But do
what
?
You’ll know, Alan.
There’s someone waiting for you. A guide. He’ll show you what to do. Listen to him. Listen to him and do as he says.
Alright. He nodded.
Be brave, Alan. Be strong. This is for us, to end things at last.
He nodded. In perfect unison, they nodded back.
Goodbye, Alan.
The light around the boys died. The dark rushed back in, only to disperse, and sound returned. The Warbeck building loomed before him.
And the doors were open.
“Allen, for Christ’s sake!”
He didn’t look at Vera as she ran up. He waved her away; she was an irrelevance now. He didn’t need a business manager, or a minder. This was more important than she’d ever understand.
“Alan... Allen – don’t go in there.”
He went up the stairs to face his destiny. She ran up the steps, caught him, tried to pull him back. But big sister wasn’t so big any more and he threw her easily aside. She fell down the steps and landed with a near-comical squawk, legs aspraddle, skirt hiked up, looking up in anger, shock, humiliation and dismay.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to.” For her as much as him. He turned and made for that black, gaping wound of a doorway. The Sight shackled them together; while it tortured him, he couldn’t leave. But if it didn’t, anymore – if it served its purpose and was gone – then she’d be free too. They both would.
And he owed her that if he owed her anything; the one thing his money could never buy.
V
ERA FUMBLED IN
her pocket for a tissue, dabbed blood from her nostril. Her backside hurt where she’d landed on it, but she’d live.
“Bastard,” she said. But there was guilty relief there too. The Black Sun had finally claimed its own; it had never really been in Shackleton Street; it had been waiting for him, here, all these years.
“A
NNA, WAIT UP
!”
She looked; Martyn blundered after her. Her life in a bloody nutshell – she had the strength and speed to outrun all the crap, but something always held her back.
The worst had happened. The ghosts were here. They could kill, and they had. So, perhaps she wasn’t mad, after all. Perhaps she had the Sight, she saw things others didn’t. Either way, she had to keep moving.
There was only silence from E Block now. No shooting. No screams. Stakowski had been right behind her but he’d turned back, gone back in. She’d liked Stakowski. The only sound now was the wind’s keen.
But she couldn’t help him or the others now. Mary was what mattered; that meant getting out of here. As Martyn neared her, she started running again, outpacing him easily.
The Warbeck building came into view to the right; her feet crunched on gravel. And then she saw Vera outside it and she veered, running up the path. Behind her, Martyn shouted her name.
Vera leant against a pillar, biting her lip.
“Vera? You OK?”
“Just bruised. Fell down the steps. Or rather, Allen pushed me.”
“He did bloody what?” Martyn, arriving, chivalrously outraged.
“He saw his bloody spirit guides again. They said he had to go in there, so he did. Tried to stop him, but he shoved me down. Little sod.”
Martyn was already going up the steps.
“Martyn, what’re you–”
“Her brother’s in there,” he said. “And Eva too. Must be. Only place we’ve not checked. ”
“Martyn–”
But he’d stepped inside. Anna turned to Vera, but her head was bowed, a tear running from under her closed eyelids down one powdered cheek. She suddenly looked old; Anna reached out to her. Vera looked up, dabbed her eyes with a tissue, straightened her shoulders, tightened her jaw and followed.
And that left Anna. What now? She could go. Someone had to look after Mary if Martyn didn’t return. But she knew that wasn’t really why; a shameful part of her would pay any price for freedom. And what if Eva was alive, waiting to be found? Mary would have her parents back, and Anna might be free to go. Manchester wasn’t far. She could still have a future, if she wanted one.
Anna took out one of the torches she’d packed and walked up the steps. She hesitated briefly before the thick, churning dark, its cold, dank breath on her face, then took a deep breath and stepped into its heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
D
EEPER AND CRUELLER
than the normal winter chill, the cold fell around her like a shroud. And it was dark; she could see nothing, no-one.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed. She wished she hadn’t spoken.
“Anna?” Vera’s voice, right next to her. She turned, shining the torch; Vera flinched back. Beside her, Martyn scowled.
“Helps if you’ve one of these,” she said. “Lucky I’ve got a spare–”
“Ta.” Martyn plucked the second torch from her hand. “Let’s find him ’fore he does hisself a mischief.”
“Which way?” asked Vera.
Anna pointed. “Only one way, really. Main corridor, down there.”
“Well, let’s crack on, then,” said Martyn. “Catch him up before we lose him.”
A match struck, orange flame playing across Vera’s face; a faint tang of sulphur, then burning tobacco. “God,” she said, and came over to Anna, took her arm and breathed deep. Scared; Anna could feel it. She opened her mouth to speak.
“Come on, you two.”
Vera breathed out, nodded; they went after Martyn. She kept hold of Anna’s arm. Anna didn’t try to shake her off.
A
LAN DIDN’T HAVE
a torch, but he didn’t need one here. Three pools of light were arranged along the corridor; one of the dead boys stood in each, to help him find his way. Johnny was closest. As Alan drew level with him the light went out; the blackness washed back into place behind him.
Alan, yes, not Allen anymore. Latimer, not Cowell. With any luck, Allen Cowell was gone forever. He’d never been real; just a mask, an act. Alan Latimer from Shackleton Street had been the one to see the dead. Such a relief, at last, to let the lies slip away. So, he was plain Alan Latimer again. Who needed help – therapists, counselling. That was fine; he could afford it. But first, this.
Another light bloomed further up the corridor. Johnny stepped into it, stood waiting. Alan looked back; grey shapes moved beneath the darkness like fish under lightless water. He glimpsed military uniforms, white hospital smocks, faces–
Alan.
He turned back to face the three dead boys.
Don’t look behind you. Look forward. Not the past. The future.
Yes, of course. They were right. He walked towards the next pool of light; it blinked out and reappeared further down. Allen –
Alan –
followed, and didn’t look back.
P
AINT FLAKED FROM
the corridor walls; nests of ancient wiring hung from ceilings like tangled cobwebs. Doors stood open, revealing long-empty offices. In some, files still stood open on desks. A sink, a toilet, both blotched with rust. Sometimes dust swirled about them; years’ worth, decades.
It felt like they’d been following the same unending corridor for hours. For all she knew, they had. They could’ve circled the place twice already.
“Anna?” Vera’s fingers were tight on her arm. “What time do you make it?”
“Time? It’s...” Anna looked at her watch. “Stopped. Midnight, it says. That can’t be. Can it?”
“Don’t know. Don’t think so. Mine was playing up before. Now it’s stopped too, both hands at twelve. Same as yours. And my mobile’s dead. Only charged it up last night.” Her voice shook.
Anna checked her phone. “Mine’s dead too.”
“Just have to keep going then,” said Martyn, up ahead.
“I just want to get out of here,” Vera whispered. “While we can.”
“What about Allen?”
“Sod him–” Vera put a hand to her mouth. She made a trapped, tiny noise.
“It’s OK. I didn’t want to come either.”
Vera looked up the corridor to Martyn, then back to Anna.
“I’m not leaving him.” The grip on her arm slackened; Vera’s eyes darted to the torch. Anna stepped back. “No, Vera.”
Vera’s lips trembled. She blinked back tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just...”
“I understand.” She glanced at Martyn. “Let me talk to him. Martyn?” He ignored her, kept going. “
Martyn
.”