The Night Clock Page 7

  The single lit unit of Balv’s emporium was ahead. Rob was unsure of the time but it must be midnight and Balv’s often stayed open until gone one, selling booze and tobacco to the gangs of kids that roamed the estate in the small hours now Beanie was running the show.

  Gollick walked up to Balv’s and went inside. Rob lurked at the corner of the walkway and tried to look offhand, as if he had just popped out to do a bit of shopping himself. He checked his pockets as an afterthought. Actually, why not? He had a few quid left and he wasn’t sure what he had available at home. He was hungry and hadn’t eaten all day. A couple of bottles would sort that out.

  He went up to the door but didn’t get a chance to go inside, because Neil Gollick came out carrying a carton of milk, and stopped and looked at Rob, and grinned with a mouthfull of teeth like glass.

  Rob stumbled away, arms raised. He felt his remaining strength drain off through his boots. He collapsed against the window of Balv’s shop and opened and closed his mouth, wordless with horror.

  What stood there, half-turned towards him beneath the flyblown lamp embedded in the concrete roof, was wearing Gollick’s coat and boots but it wasn’t Gollick anymore. Its jaw was jutting and crammed with those sharp, glassy teeth, angling over each other in a gaping, benthic maw. Its eyes gleamed a bioluminescent white. Its hands were blunt and fingerless but with huge thick claws like toggles on a duffel coat protruded from the knuckles. There was a sudden pop and Rob nearly passed out, but it was just the sound of those claws bursting through the milk carton as Gollick-not-Gollick clutched it against his chest. The milk that poured from it was yellow and lumpy and stank like cheese soaked in blister fluid.

  Rob gagged and pushed himself away from the window. He backed away until he had a concrete post between them. Gollick-not-Gollick remained standing outside Balv’s, the curdled milk soaking into his coat and the legs of his leisure pants. His white eyes shone with a horrible alien patience.

  Rob turned and ran.

  GASPING, ROB REACHED the stairwell that led up to his flat. He took a look over his shoulder but could see nothing coming for him from out of the darkness, no Gollick real or imagined. He ran a trembling hand over his face. He was sweating and the hospital pyjamas beneath his jacket were clinging to his back and chest. The stairwell was at the end of an alley between two ranks of lock-up garages and he had run the dark length of it without looking back, sure Gollick would be following. His guts churned; a bit of reflux rose up, a sizzling throatful that he swallowed back down with a wince.He closed his eyes but then opened them again, wide and staring, trying to absorb as many of the scanty photons available to him at the end of that dank, secluded passage. He reached out and gripped the pitted iron banister.

  Something was coming up the alley.

  Its footsteps gritted on the broken flagstones as it came. Its white eyes shone, two smoking pinpricks in its distended face. It seemed in no hurry. And why should it be in one? It knew where Rob lived.

  Rob uttered a small shriek. It seemed to get tangled in his beard and would have been unheard by anyone not standing an inch away from his mouth. It went: brrrffh. It was more of an exhalation than a shriek but Rob had the distinct and commensurate feeling that he was yelling his head off in a nightmare. He found that he couldn’t move.

  Gollick drew closer, stepping through the evil slush seeping from bin bags plundered by rodents and foxes that lay stacked along the backs of the lockups. Gollick’s arms hung by his sides and the associated movement as they swung slightly with each step dragged those inward curving claws against the fabric of his coat making short, harsh plastic scratching sounds.

  Rob pulled his eyes away from the sight and turned to run up the stairwell. He fully expected his flight to be hampered by the dream-sensation of ploughing through treacle, but he accelerated up the stairs so fast that he smacked his head on the facing wall of the landing. He staggered up the next three flights and swung himself onto the narrow walkway that overlooked the roofs of the garages. He took a moment to peer over the low concrete balustrade but could see nothing moving below. Then he heard movement in the stairwell. He moaned again and took off along the walkway towards the door of his flat. Rob’s was the sixth flat along and as he passed those of his neighbours he thought about knocking on their doors to try and get some help, but it was a fleeting thought; most of them were in a worse state than he was.

  He reached his front door and pulled his key from his jacket pocket. It was a lone chub key on a chipped and dented Mr. Napoli ice cream key ring he’d had since he was a child. At least the isolated nature of his door key prevented any clichéd horror-film fumbling, and it slid home and turned without issue, but it was a sad reflection of his downward trajectory however convenient at that moment. Once Rob had been the owner of a fistful of keys, the like of which any man should possess; house keys front and back, garage key, car keys, suitcase key, gun cabinet key, shed key, a whole bunch of small metal emblems giving access to things and spaces owned, collected and valued. The depletion of his key ring was still a tart reminder to Rob as to how far he had fallen every time he reached into his pocket and let himself into his grotty flat.

  Inside, Rob stood panting in the hallway. He stepped into the kitchenette and yanked the curtains across the window above the bilged sink. Then he went into the living room and stood there for a moment and looked around with little hope of finding anything there to protect or defend himself. He pulled the blind down over the window in there, too, then went into his bedroom and did the same again. Then he went back into the kitchen and grabbed a two-litre bottle of White Lightning and took a long swallow.

  As he was gulping his drink, he heard a noise on the walkway outside. He froze. It was footsteps; slow, gritting footsteps. They stopped outside the window.

  Rob backed away into the hall and, trembling, stood on tiptoes and took a quick peek out through the dirty glass panel set in the top of the front door. He dropped back onto his heels and continued down into a crouch, the plastic bottle held in his arms. He had another quick sip, his eyes shut tight.

  Gollick was out there. He was just standing on the walkway, facing the window, arms slack at his sides. He was grinning, or appeared to be, but it was impossible to ascertain his general humour with his jaw jammed open by all those shards of teeth.

  Rob shuffled in a crouch into the living room and kneed the door shut. He went over to the sofa and slid onto it and sat there cradling his bottle. As he sat there he became aware that he was filthy. He gazed with bewildered, damp eyes around the flat. No photos, no pictures, no belongings of any value. No carpet. Just a sunken sofa, a second-hand coffee table sticky with sour drink and a twenty-year old TV in the corner with no remote control. He was wearing hospital pyjamas and his supper was booze. Dirty bastard.

  He began to cry.

  TREVENA HAD GOT home around half five. He had about twenty minutes before he had to go to his therapy appointment. Stibbs had referred him to Occupational Health two months ago because he though Trevena might be ‘struggling’ after his divorce was finalised. Trevena didn’t lack self-awareness but still bridled at the suggestion that he wasn’t coping. He’d had a bit of sick time off though and Human Resources were staring to get on Stibbs’ back about it. It was kind of a done deal. Trevena took the referral and spent an hour a week in counselling, talking to a psychiatrist. His name was Doctor Mocking, and despite his initial misgivings, Trevena had to admit the doc was good.

  He was pouring himself a large glass of merlot when the back door crashed open and a shirtless boy staggered into his kitchen carrying a crate of lagers. He was runty but sported the requisite well-developed pecs and abs youth culture demands, and his forearms were cinched with a black ironwork of tribal tattoos. His jeans looked three sized too big and hung around the tops of his thighs. His Calvin Klein underpants were blindingly white against the cramped little muscles of his belly. Trevena watched him cross the kitchen and dump the crate of tinnies over by the fridge. J
ust stood there with his glass raised to his lips, one hand in his trouser pocket, eyes narrowed above the rim of the glass.

  The boy reached out to open the fridge and then started when Trevena coughed. He turned around glaring. He had a stupid face, Trevena thought. You dim little cunt. Anger was rising in him and he took a slow sip of his wine. Yet another jobless twat coming and going as he pleased like he owned the place. Stock up on the cheap drink, party on his daughter and then go down the pub and bring back a load of mates.

  “Oh,” the boy said in a strange high voice. Trevena bridled at its artifice. “A’ight, chap?”

  Trevena took another sip of wine and set his glass down on the kitchen table.

  “My name’s Mr. Trevena,” he said. “Not chap, or buddy, or guy.”

  The boy’s face went blank. All grasp of the situation just dropped away, like the remains of an unappetising meal being scraped off a plate into a bin.

  Trevena stepped around the table. The boy flinched and reached for his beers.

  “Leave the beers,” Trevena said. “And get the fuck out of my house.”

  Keeping his back to the worktop, the boy edged away towards the door. Trevena followed him, kept his pace slow and his face expressionless. He stared hard at the boy, daring—wanting—him to say something, do something. Trevena felt all of the day’s rage piling up inside him. He hoped he wouldn’t have to speak again, because he was sure his voice would be shaky with adrenaline.

  But the boy didn’t do anything, and he backed away to the door and disappeared up the garden, his narrow back with its caramel, layabout tan rising out of his pants like a wafer in a pert little dollop of ice-cream.

  “Pull your trousers up, you prick,” Trevena said loudly enough for the boy to hear him and, in reflex, reach around to yank up the waistband of his jeans.

  Trevena was relieved to hear that his voice wasn’t shaking after all.

  AT HALF PAST one in the morning, Graham Knott awoke to the sound of his pager going off.

  He groaned and rolled onto his side. He plucked the pager from his bedside cabinet and squinted at the luminous green display. His heart was racing, as it always did when he was pulled from sleep like this; Graham hated being on call. He always had trouble going off to sleep, knowing there was the potential for the pager to go off at any time in the small hours; he slept fitfully if he slept at all, and he couldn’t even have a drink. He frowned as he read the message scrolling across the screen, his heart sinking.

  PLEASE HELP URGENT I CANT GO ON NEIL HAS TURNED INTO AN ANGLER FISH THIS IS ROB LITCHIN URGENT

  He’d heard it all now. Graham sat up and yawned and began to get dressed.

  AN HOUR LATER, Graham pulled up outside Rob’s block of flats. His eyes still felt grainy but he’d had a couple of cups of coffee before he left and felt a little more alert. He had tried phoning Rob back on the number he had provided at the end of his garbled text but there had been no reply, just voicemail. Graham had left a brief message to say he had received the page and he would be responding within the hour. If possible, Graham liked to try and de-escalate over the phone; it often prevented him having to go out until the next day, but in this case he was frustrated. He lit a cigarette and got out of the car.

  It was cold and there was a low, orange-tinged mist seeping around the grounds of the estate. He zipped up his leather jacket and squinted up at the block facing him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He tried his phone again but still got no reply from Rob.

  Graham trudged across the green and approached the stairwell. The block was large and had at least three legal means of access. There was a back stairs at the end of a row of lockups and a tiny, cramped lift in an entrance hall at the front of the flats but he didn’t fancy either of those at this time of night. He started up the stairs dodging flakes of dog muck scraped off on the edges of the steps and other assorted bio-litter; rivulets of urine, sick, and an extra-large condom curled in the corner of a landing like a dozing slow worm.

  Usually, Graham would have called for a second worker to support him on a night call like this, but he couldn’t be bothered dragging someone else out of bed to end up waiting even longer while they pitched up. It would probably have meant waking up Stibbs, who was manager on-call tonight, and he could well do without that tosser giving it large about wasting resources. And Phil should have been on with him tonight but he was on light duties now so he wasn’t an option. Graham was confident he could handle this Rob character. Probably just off his tits on economy pop.

  Phil was fucked, though. Graham couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Graham liked Phil; they’d known each other for years, but the bloke was on the edge. He might have felt a bit of guilt, having been the one to mention to Stibbs in supervision how concerned he was for Phil’s well being, and offering to take Zoë off his hands for a while to give him a break, but in the end, you had to look after yourself, and the job wasn’t about to get any easier over the next few months. People were going to lose their jobs and with his habits and lifestyle choices, Graham really couldn’t afford to lose his. Dog eat dog. Or dog at least takes a little nibble when the other dog’s not looking. No harm done.

  Talking of little nibbles, he was looking forward to working with that student bird Zoë. That was tasty. The mouth on it. Graham thought about a student they’d had in the team a few years ago called Zara. No tits, but legs. It wasn’t long before he was up to his guts in it. It used to be easy, he was a good-looking bloke and the female students loved the experience he had, the knowledge. Psychiatry could be a sexy language. You could sound like a fucking scientist just by knowing the right words. Phenothiazine naïve, tardive dyskinesia, extrapyramidal side-effects. You could even get away with bandying that shit around in front of psychiatrists. You could see the affect it was having on the girls. They’d go all still and studious, their brows furrowing and their eyes taking on a serious, burning cast. Trying to look like they were learning but feeling it all downstairs. They always fell in love with their gurus eventually. Just a bit, maybe, but a bit was nearly always enough. Graham smiled as he rounded the last landing and started down the walkway towards Rob’s flat.

  He passed a narrow corridor that led off into an atrium that housed the lift. He glanced down there but all was in darkness. He continued along the walkway until he reached the door to Rob’s flat. He knocked on the glass set into the top of the door. He waited. No reply, no sound from within. He checked his watch. Three o’clock in the morning. He sighed. Good job he was on a late shift tomorrow.

  He stood on tiptoes and peered through the glass. He could see into a small, darkened hallway. To the left was the kitchen and straight ahead the living room.

  And then he saw movement. Something low and pale had just peered around the door into the lounge. Graham squinted. It was about two feet off the ground, just a smudge against the gloom. He rubbed a couple of fingers against the glass to remove some grime and peered in again. Something was crawling towards him up the short hallway. Graham stepped back from the door until the backs of his legs bumped the low parapet that ran along the edge of the walkway.

  Then Graham heard something: reeeeeeeeeee.

  He turned to look out across the estate.

  Reeeeeeeeeeeee.

  Something was coming across the green towards the flats, bumping and waddling over the uneven ground. He could hear the arduous sound of its tiny engine as it struggled to propel the bulk of its rider. A headlight was mounted to the front of it giving off a dim, brownish glow. It looked like it was smothered in a thick film of grease. Graham frowned as he watched it approach the ground floor beneath where he stood. Whoever was on board was hunched over, their face obscured.

  Graham watched it disappear beneath the parapet. The sound of the engine continued, blatting away at a slightly higher pitch, growing quieter as it trundled along the corridor towards the lift.

  Growing irritable, Graham went back to Rob’s door and looked through the glass again. The hallway
was empty.

  He was about to call it a night and go home but then he heard someone say, “Are you a nurse?”

  “Is that you, Rob?” Graham said. He tilted his head so that he was listening an inch away from the door. “It’s Graham. You met me with Phil on the ward.”

  There was silence. From somewhere below, the squat and dented lift clanked and began to ascend its narrow shaft up the middle of the block. Graham heard the low groan of its unmaintained motor and the squeal of its pulleys.

  Now Graham could hear sobbing. “You going to let me in, Rob. It’s a bit chilly out here, mate.”

  “Is there anyone out there with you? Have you seen anyone?”

  “Just me, mate.”

  “Have you seen Neil?”

  Graham remembered that the name of the man who had been with Rob when he’d been shot had been Neil. This bloke was creating a proper delusional system about all this.

  “No, Neil’s not here. I’m alone.”

  There was another sob and a sniff. “Thank God!”

  Graham waited for another moment, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. His toes were cold. He heard the lift reach its destination and grind to a halt. Its door shuddered open and Graham heard: reeeeeeeeeee.

  “I’ll just get my key,” Rob said, and Graham heard him shuffling off back down the hall. He looked through the glass and watched Rob crawling back into the lounge.

  Graham’s patience was diminishing; he knew taking this bloke onto their caseload was going to be a waste of time. Nothing worse than a pisshead to suck the life out of you. He’ll probably just crawl into the lounge and go to sleep on the floor.

  “Bollocks to this,” Graham said. Rob was alive, that was established. He’d give him a ring in the morning. Graham turned intending to walk back towards the stairwell but found his way blocked by the figure riding the mobility scooter. It had emerged from the corridor and turned onto the walkway. Graham frowned. The scooter looked odd. The rider was still hunched over the handlebars, its face obscured. Graham took a step towards the scooter. The rider gripped the accelerator and revved the tiny motor. Reeeeeeeeeeee.