Authors: Phil Chard
“You’re not working at the weekend are you?”
“Just for a couple of hours – from home; I don’t need to go into the office.”
Her expression showed signs of appeasement. “You know… I don’t remember the last time I had pizza.”
“That’s what you want?”
“No! It’s not good for my figure Charles.”
“New house. Newlyweds. Celebration… excuse?”
His argument won her over, a slight nodding of her head accelerated to an excited “Yes!”
He held her face and kissed her warmly on the lips.
*
It had been a...
Emily stared at the computer screen.
It had been a what?
What kind of day had it been? Stormy? Windswept?
She sat back in her executive chair. Only the chair, the desk and her computer had been unpacked. The rest of the boxes marked ‘Emily’s work room’ had been untouched and remained scattered around the room, surrounding her, distracting her, not inspiring her.
Her arms rested on top of her head and she sat back in the chair.
It had been a ...
She deleted the words.
A clock at the bottom of the computer’s screen told her it was 20:54. Charles would be home soon. She sighed, gave up the ghost, saved the computer file she was working on and then switched the computer off. The screen whirled and flashed as it completed its shutdown protocols. A fizz of electrical noises dramatically ended when the screen went blank and sizzled with static. Sunlight still poked through the window, but sunset wouldn’t be long off now.
For several minutes she sat in a cathartic silence while her mind searched for a task to move onto. Several were dismissed: she was in no mood to do more unpacking; that could wait until the morning. The television... was that even unpacked? Was it...
Clink―Clink―Clink
The noise startled her. Her wandering mind received a focus. The noise had sounded like metal on metal.
Clink―Clink―Clink
It sounded again... the sound was definitely metallic.
Clink―Clink―Clink
Trying to make sense of the noise, she looked at the radiator; did this noise accompany the heating system?
Clink―Clink―Clink
Clink―Clink―Clink
The radiator was stone cold. There were no vibrations coming through it, the heating wasn’t coming on.
Clink―Clink―Clink
Clink―Clink―Clink
Her heart rate had become rapid.
What on earth was this?
Clink―Clink―Clink
Emily walked to the door and onto the first floor. She was immediately uneasy. This was one thing about the house she didn’t like: the entire first floor had a perimeter walkway, protected by an iron handrail balustrade. Beyond the balustrade was a drop to the ground floor. It reminded her of the interior of the prisons she had seen on television; the only thing missing was a net to catch the jumpers.
Clink――Clink――Clink――
The delay between the metallic din had increased.
Clink――Clink――Clink――
As if at once responding to her appearance, the pauses between the clanging metallic noises had doubled.
Clink――Clink――Clink――
She isolated the noise quickly; it was one of two rooms in the left hand corner.
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
The noise had changed gear again. A perfect three seconds between each noise, she could have counted them in. Her feet dug into the rug beneath them; she was paralysed with fear. Her heart was rioting in her chest and a thin film of perspiration grew on her forehead.
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
Fear gripped her.
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
What on earth was that noise?
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
Emily’s heart accelerated further.
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
Primeval thoughts now took over:
Why are you walking toward this? Turn around! Get out of there! Run!
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
Her foot took a cautious step back, then another...
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
Then another... then another... then...
Clink―――Clink―――Clink
...she turned around at the wrong time, not seeing the only decoration they’d unpacked, a horrible wooden carving of Siamese cats; she slipped immediately and fell to the ground.
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
No pause between the clanging noises now. It sounded to Emily like a laugh; it sounded like someone was mocking her.
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
ClinkClinkClinkClinkClink
Emily could take no more of this; she picked herself up and ran back to her work room, slammed the door shut and backed her frame against it.
Clink―Clink―Clink
Clink―Clink―Clink
She covered her ears...
...she could still hear the noises.
*
Charles put a reassuring hand on his wife’s back and rubbed therapeutically. She was still shaking slightly. When he’d got back, it had taken him an hour to convince her to open the door of her writer’s room to him.
“This is an old house,” he began, “there will be creaks galore. It will take us a while to get used to it.”
Emily turned to him, her eyes wrathful. “Don’t you dare tell me I imagined this!”
“No, I don’t think that.” Charles’ tone was conciliatory. “But you said yourself you had a couple of drinks―”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“Did I say that?” he paused. “But you had a couple of drinks, you were writing your book so your imagination was in overdrive―”
“Check the room Charles.
Please
.”
Charles read desperation in her expression.
“OK. OK.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead, then made his way to the door.
“Be careful,” she implored him through red, tear stained eyes. He smiled reassuringly in return and exited.
The room she had described to him was at the far end; he made his way over, past the ghastly wooden Siamese monstrosity, musing on his wife’s fragility this evening. When he’d entered the house an hour ago, he had heard no phantom noises. And yet she had been hysterical and in floods of tears, insisting that someone was in the room.
Charles paused at the panelled wood door. His hand made for the handle and he threw the door open. The room was exactly as he expected: empty. He strode inside and was immediately hit by the cold. An open window was quickly closed. The room itself was barren: cold, wooden, creaking floorboards were in need of repair, but housed no furniture―they’d not even stored any unopened boxes here― no rugs, no curtains on the windows, and even the walls were a blank colourless white.
His mind was churning over the amount of work that would be needed to fix the room up when an object caught his peripheral vision. He stepped towards it, then bent down and picked it up. He turned the metal rod around in his hands.
Like someone was banging down on some pipes, Charles...
Charles looked around and quickly spotted the heating radiator and its thin pipe snaking around the room. He examined the metal rod again and then looked at the pipes. After a length of time, he shook his head. It was his wife’s imagination that was all. And it would do her no good if she found out there was a metal rod in here, something that would give credence to her imagination’s tale. He looked around for a hiding place and his eyes eventually settled on one of the raised floorboards. It didn’t take long to pull it up, hide the metal rod and then fix the board back in place.
It was then that a loud noise behind him caught his attention.
The window he’d closed was now buffeting in the wind.
He could have sworn that he’d secured the latch down
. Can’t have,
he told himself. He closed the window shut and double checked that the latch was secure. It was.
Chapter III
Juliet stared impassively out of the window. Dark sheets of rain drummed onto the pavement outside. The same rhythm could be heard attacking the roof above. Outside, Friday night revellers were few and far between. When the doors of the fleshpots did open, newspapers, handbags and coats would be employed by people dashing to their next destination.
Although the cafe was warm, the images through the window were enough to trigger a shiver across Juliet’s back.
She looked at her watch. Joe was late.
Joe Miller was Juliet’s only real friend. Now a Detective Sergeant in the police, they had met on that fateful day 7 years ago; the then PC Miller and another officer had been the first police on the scene at Ludivicio Street. He was the only person in the world (apart from the spirits that Juliet had met) that knew the specifics of Juliet’s
condition
. Recently, he’d been employing Juliet’s unique skills to help him with some of his cases. Juliet didn’t like his approach to police work these days, but she owed him many things, not least of all a considerable amount of money. He’d bailed her out with rent arrears and life’s general monetary problems on so many occasions that her debt to him was spiralling out of control. Joe had been a righteous role model when they’d met, but the years in his job had corrupted him. Now he wanted to drag another soul into his darkening abyss, and she just happened to be the butterfly stuck in his insect jar.
Miranda, the girl working tonight’s late shift, was the only other person in the cafe. She was cleaning one of several empty tables and glanced over to smile creakily at Juliet. The smile fused
hello
with
isn’t it time you were gone?
Juliet consulted her watch again. It was two-minutes-past-the-last-time-she-looked. It was late, but then Joe’s job could keep him late, and in any case he was not a forensic time keeper.
A new mix of cars and revellers drifted by the window.
Then just the rain.
Time danced to a slow tempo with little distractions via the window. Juliet drifted into melancholy thoughts.
Where am I in the world? Where am I going in life? What’s it all for?
She may have glimpsed beyond the veil, but she found little answers, only more questions.
Miranda started singing to herself. Her technique was bad and she was tone deaf, so it was reasonable to assume it was a plot to get rid of Juliet.
Then, finally, a car pulled up outside and a face stared out the driver’s side window towards Juliet. Despite the lashing rain’s attempt at morphing his features in the window, Juliet recognised Joe’s face. His hand beckoned her to the car—their conversation was to be held in private.
Juliet fumbled in her pockets for low value change, left Miranda a small tip and walked to the door. She zipped her leather coat up to her chin before charging at the door and beyond. With a swift dash she was inside Joe’s car and perceived the usual disorder: fast-food and sweet wrappers, empty drinks cartons, fragments of overread newspapers. It was a scene she associated with Joe on a stakeout. Joe killed the windscreen wipers but kept the car running. His gestures were all too familiar: he was busy, frustrated and angry by work. Their conversation would be short and to the point.
“How you been?” Joe asked, leaning over to face her.
“Alright,” Juliet replied. “You?”
“Busy. Sorry I haven’t been in touch in a while.”
“Hey, you’re not my father, husband, brother or lover. I haven’t been sat by the phone waiting, Joe.”
An expression formed on Joe’s face:
You’re a bitch
, it seemed to imply.
Juliet moved to fix her unintended faux-pas. “Look, I know you’re busy. There’s no need to explain anything to me.”
He faced forward, staring into the rain, his finger tapped nervously on the steering wheel. He was clearly still nettled by the remark. “I’ve been busy.” he repeated.
Jesus, I could do without this
, Juliet thought. She decided to move the conversation forward. “What’s on your mind Joe?”
“The usual. I need you to look around a house for me.”
“Am I right in assuming the owner hasn’t sent me an invite?”
“Naturally. I need your unique skills. It’s covert, obviously.”
“What’s the owner of the house supposed to have done? What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Joe, you ever think you’re going about this the wrong way? Find the criminal then the crime? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
A flash of anger in his eyes. “You got a degree in police work now, huh?”
His raised voice enabled her to smell alcohol on his breath. She’d smelt it too often recently.
“It’s not just a reccy,” Joe began, voice calmer, “if you don’t find what I’m looking for, I need you to… take something in with you.”
“Let’s call a spade a spade Joe; you’re requesting that I plant evidence…
again!
”
“Imagine if we could have done something like this with Jack DeGrisse, before―”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare bring
his
name into this!”
Joe held his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry.”
The rain beat down on the car.
They sat in silence for an interval.
“There are some missing girls,” Joe began, “just like you were missing, remember?”
“I haven’t read about any missing girls Joe. I’ve haven’t seen this on the news. And that kind of thing is normally on the news isn’t it Joe? Are you lying to me?”
“They’re not missing like you mean. They’re trapped. Sex trafficking, Juliet. He’s involved.”
Joe would always throw in deviancy to push the right buttons. Was it true? It didn’t matter. She’d do it. She owed him; she was still the butterfly stuck in his insect jar.
“He’s not at home right now. I have reason to suspect he’ll be out for a while.”
Translation: Joe had been watching the house, that’s why he was late. And he’d been watching the house a lot, knew the man’s movements and knew he wouldn’t be back for a while.