DEATHLOOP Read online

  “I love the rain,” she said, her eyes alive with it all.

  Zack loved it too. With a bit of luck it would remain like this for the duration, which meant they could stay in bed the whole time and not pretend that they were actually interested in any of this countryside bullshit which was already beginning to irritate the hell out of him.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was nearly 7 when they found themselves a mile from their destination. The rain had got into its stride and was now torrential, causing Zack to reduce his speed in this winding country lane, high up on the side of a hill. The wipers barely able to cope, Zack was on the verge of suggesting they just pull up somewhere because the conditions were unnerving him. Then, through the deluge, Veronica saw a small road sign pointing left, ‘Renfield’ the sign read. The Mercedes screeched, halted, backed a little way, then Zack threw the steering wheel and they continued along a smaller road now, but thankfully away from the sheer drop of the hill face.

  Just as they were about to drive under a small stone bridge clothed in scaffolding, the engine of the Mercedes cut out, light died, like someone had flicked a switch, then a crack of pure white lightning forked right across the sky.

  “Hell,” said Zack.

  “What’s happened?” said Veronica, “why so dark suddenly?”

  Zack looked up to the bridge in front of them, and although the view was obscured by rain spattering the windscreen and the sudden loss of light, he saw something move.

  “Get out of the car Veronica!”

  “What?”

  “Get out of the bloody car!”

  Like the arc of a javelin in flight, a scaffolding pole tipped free of its restraints fell from the bridge and punctured the windscreen of the Mercedes cleanly, ending up at the back of the passenger seat, shattered glass cascading into the car with it. The pole shifted a bit, as though getting comfortable, then came to rest, one end exactly where Veronica had been sitting, the other thrusting out over the bonnet like a fishing rod. Standing on either side of the car Zack and Veronica were drenched already, but it didn’t matter, they felt lucky, extremely lucky. Neither of their phones would work, so there was nothing else for it. They took one bag from the boot, stuffing in a change of clothes, and set off. Through the downpour, they saw sparse lights in the distance and continued walking towards them.

  No one was out on the streets of Renfield, only Zack and Veronica, their shoes squelching, their clothes heavy with water making the simplest movement difficult. There was one real light in the town and that spelt out the words ‘Guest House’, although the ‘o’ was missing, a more welcoming sight Zack thought he had never seen. They struggled towards the slate grey building and pushed open the door, shaking themselves on the porch like Labradors and kicking off their shoes. Another door led them into a cosy reception area carpeted with red and gold swirls.

  An obese middle aged woman sat behind a poorly constructed reception desk, watery blue eyes peering out from pebble glasses. A sign on the desk read “Proprietor: Mrs L. E. Fairweather”. The woman looked at Zack and Veronica as though they’d just dropped in from Mars.

  “Yes?” she said, managing to sound completely disinterested in the possibility of a reply.

  “Please say you have a room available,” said Zack, “car trouble, so we’re a bit stuck as you can see.”

  Mrs Fairweather swapped one set of glasses for another then slid a large reservation book from the side of the desk until it was exactly in front of her. She took an inordinate amount of time to do this before opening up the book, glancing down at a page, and then turning it over. Zack noticed that there was nothing written anywhere on the page that was headed with that day’s date, nothing at all.

  “How long would you require accommodation?”

  Zack wanted to say for as little a time as possible love, but he resisted. “Just tonight would do us.”

  Mrs Fairweather snapped her book shut and leant back. “Two night’s minimum,” she said.

  “Fine,” said Zack, “we’ll take it.”

  Mrs Fairweather, who found courtesy irksome at the best of times, made no attempt to disguise her contempt. She knew the kind of people these two were, people who would never in a million years stay in her guest house under normal circumstances, who would look down their noses at it in fact, but who were prepared to put up with it tonight because they were desperate and because they had nowhere else to go.

  “We do not accept credit cards, debit cards only, or cash, and the bill has to be paid now in advance, and breakfast is included if you take it or not.”

  “No problem,” said Zack.

  Mrs Fairweather took her time digging out registration forms and changing her glasses once again, as though enjoying the delay, knowing she was causing them more discomfort than was necessary.

  “We very much appreciate this, you’re a life saver, and such a lovely place,” said Veronica, glancing round at the seriously naff decor, hoping good old flattery would do the trick.

  But Mrs Fairweather knew their game. People like this thought she was lower classed, ignorant and malleable, and that a few choice words would get her to perform like a seal, but she was no one’s fool and presuming otherwise was a mistake. She decided to double the fee to get her own back.

  “Three hundred pounds then,” she said, expecting a flicker of dismay at least, but Zack refused to give her the satisfaction. The tariff was up on the wall and so he knew what she was doing, but right at that moment he would have paid anything to get warm and dry.

  Mrs Fairweather was even more disgruntled now that the financial arrangements had not even raised a brow with these people who clearly had money to burn, and very much wishing she had had the nerve to go for four hundred and be done with it.

  “Is there any food available?” asked Zack, knowing exactly what her reply would be even before he spoke.

  “No, nothing till morning now,” she said, pleasantly, with a ghost of a smile.

  “Toast or anything like that?”

  “The kitchen is closed,” said Mrs Fairweather as though putting a lid on all this food nonsense once and for all.

  Through an open door Zack could see the kitchen from where he stood and so it wasn’t closed obviously, and the toaster was there on the work surface as large as life but he knew it was hopeless, he knew this woman took great pleasure in denying people things, it was probably the only pleasure she had left.

  Mrs Fairweather struggled on the stairs, out of breath within seconds and wheezing. She led them right to the top of the building to a tiny attic room with a sloping roof. They all knew this was the worst room in the house, and they also all knew that she had chosen it even though there were other, much better rooms lying empty on the floors below. Zack was on the verge of saying something but he caught Veronica’s eye which told him to leave it, that it was one night after all and it would do. Mrs Fairweather said nothing, tossing the keys on a chipped old plywood dressing table before lumbering off.

  “Bloody hell,” said Zack tearing at his clothes and grabbing a thin, cheap towel from the shower cubicle, about to launch into a diatribe.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Veronica with a smile, “it’s fine.”

  Zack grabbed Veronica and hugged her. He felt so lucky to be with this woman who had trudged across the Derbyshire hills in horrendous conditions, wet through, cold, miserable, without a single complaint, and once or twice in fits of laugher at their absurd predicament. Now here she was in this grotesque rabbit hutch of a place, and still she hadn’t lost her sense of humour, Veronica French had to be the best person on earth.

  “You get in the shower first,” he said.

  “Let’s live dangerously and both get in.”

  So they climbed tentatively into the tiny plastic cubicle which creaked and groaned at their weight and stood beneath a feeble dribble of warm water, encased by grubby tiles and dingy, lime scaled enclosures.

  “Oh this is ridiculous,” said Zack, struggling to get
any power at all from the prehistoric shower unit.

  Veronica burst out laughing, then Zack did, then they found themselves unable to stop and they became hysterical. It had been Veronica’s intention to make love to Zack in the shower but in the confined space it was uncomfortable and it didn’t work, so Zack left her to it, getting in himself a little later.

  They were dry now and in fresh clothes, happy in their little room, although Zack kept hitting his head on the eaves, making Veronica laugh. They lounged on the bed, Veronica pulling out a soggy leaflet from her bag.

  “What time is it?”

  “8.15,” said Zack.

  “Perfect.”

  Veronica admitted that the main reason she had been keen to come to Renfield was because there was quite a well-known spiritualist church just off the main street, and there was a service there apparently, that night. She asked Zack casually if he’d heard of it. To say Zack looked crestfallen would be something of an understatement. He just stared at her and said nothing hoping she would pick up the vibes.

  “A friend of mine died last year, I’d just like to know she’s okay, that’s all.”

  Of course she’s okay Zack wanted to say, she’s dead and as okay as she ever will be so why waste time checking up on her, and anyway what will you do if she’s not? Climb up Jack’s beanstalk and sort it out? He was angry now thinking he’d been hoodwinked into coming to this blasted place. He’d just gone through enough spooky stuff to last a lifetime and here was the woman of his dreams suggesting more.

  “You’re not serious are you?”

  “Of course I am, and look,” she said, jumping up and peering out of the window, “the rain has stopped.”

  It hadn’t stopped, Zack noted, but it was on the wane.

  “Trying to contact the dead is a waste of time, Veronica. They can’t be contacted, and you know why they can’t be contacted? Because they just so happen to be dead, that’s why.”

  “Well I don’t think so.”

  “Well I do.”

  A silence fell while they both considered their positions.

  “Okay, so you stay here, I shouldn’t be long, an hour or so at the most.”

  This annoyed Zack too. He didn’t want to stay in this poky little room that didn’t even have a television, what the hell could he do here? He could find a pub, but he knew exactly what that would entail, sitting surrounded by a bunch of geriatrics as they swapped dull tales of their dull lives and sipped the one pint of keg beer they treated themselves to at the end of another dull bloody day.

  “Where is this place?” Zack snapped, grabbing the leaflet.

  “Well I don’t know precisely but it can’t be far.”

  “I’ll catch you up.”

  “Okay, fine,” said Veronica on her way out.

  He heard her footsteps as she ran downstairs and the sound of the glass door in reception rattling closed behind her.

  Zack let out an irritated sigh and leant back on the bed in a strop. Ordinarily, he would have gone along with Veronica, but after the last few days he genuinely believed that another dose of weirdness would just about finish him off. However, he did feel guilty allowing her to track the place down on her own, he should at least have dropped her off there if nothing else. So now he was torn between remaining in their bloody awful room to sulk, or joining a bunch of delusional no-hopers in their quest for confirmation of eternal life. A rock and a hard place thought Zack, grimly.

  Veronica found the little church easily enough. As she approached its dull squat exterior, (long ago a Baptist chapel), she noticed a dim light shining from inside and a few people scuttling towards its double wooden doors, keen to escape the rain. Veronica followed them, climbed a few stone steps and found herself in a spacious vestry, further doors leading inside to the chapel itself.

  A makeshift poster was pinned on an easel and words were scrawled across it, which read: ‘RUSSELL GARRITY renowned spiritualist will lead our service on Sunday at 8.30 pm, everyone is welcome!’ Then as though an afterthought, in brackets the same hand had written ‘A collection will be made after the service for church upkeep.’

  When Veronica pushed open the heavy doors leading from the vestry and entered the Spartan, broken down chapel, twelve pairs of eyes swung towards her. There were no pews. The congregation was sitting in a circle, on very old wooden school chairs, but there was one free, the thirteenth, and Veronica walked towards it.

  “Okay if I sit here?” she said.

  “It’s yours,” said Russell Garrity, with his back to her, “we were expecting you.”

  The congregation swapped smug glances at this, content in the knowledge that with Russell they were in very good hands. A tubby, bespectacled middle aged woman, Barbara Quinn, wearing a hand knitted blue cardigan, a tartan kilt, and matching beret, smiled across at Veronica as though to welcome her to the group. A lanky woman with a bright red nose snuffled into a handkerchief which had the name ‘Violet’ embroidered close to its white lace border. A vacant young man with a moon face wearing a crinkly anorak hummed to himself and tapped his foot, impatient now for the show to begin. Finally, Russell turned to find the voice but when he saw Veronica, his face darkened.

  Russell was 55 years old, with darting black eyes, long dark wavy hair that framed a big face, punctuated by swollen features. His clothes were ages old, threadbare and patched. Russell could not have cared less about clothes which was just as well as he had remained unemployed for eight years after being made redundant from the quarry up on Brigstock Moor. He had worked at the quarry for twenty years prior to that, and losing his job affected Russell very deeply. He had always thought he was a vital component of the place, but for some reason the owners took against him, preferring to employ kids, (louts Russell called them), from the neighbouring town.

  Russell had never left home, but remained living with his mother, Elsie, 75 now and still, mercifully, in decent health. He had always been interested in psychic matters, and having so much more time on his hands since his redundancy had become completely immersed in spiritualism and the hereafter, revelling in the small time fame his dubious status afforded him, offering his services to radio talk shows, local community groups, and anyone else who would have him. Russell often said that he would not take his job back at the quarry now even if the owners went down on bended knee and implored him, after all, these days Russell had much bigger fish to fry.

  Russell found himself gazing appreciatively at this beautiful woman, wondering if she knew. But he sensed that she did not know. Whatever was about to happen to her was a secret still and he was relieved at that, that was some consolation at least.

  “Good,” said Russell, prowling round amongst them, very much in charge, “and so we shall begin. Hold hands, close your eyes and listen.”

  And listen they did as the double doors creaked open and swung closed. This certainly wasn’t the sound Russell was expecting, he cocked his ear and frowned. When Russell’s eyes opened for a long moment he just stared, then gasped, then bursting with indignation he started to yell.

  “Get out!” shrieked Russell, pointing at Zack with an accusing finger, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. “Did you hear me? Get out of here I said!”

  The congregation looked horrified at Russell’s outburst then wildly curious as to what was behind it. Russell barged over to Zack, pushing him backwards.

  “Get out for the last time! You’re not welcome here!”

  “I’m going, okay… I’m going,” said Zack, completely mystified and not a little scared by the confrontation.

  Russell lunged for Zack and grabbed him at the throat, dragging him out of the chapel and through the vestry to the front doors and onto the step. Veronica was there now, forcing her way between them, trying to intervene.

  “Get off him, are you mad! Leave him I said! What’s wrong with you?”

  Veronica managed to tug Zack free, but in the scuffle he lost his footing and sprawled down the steps onto the path. In one
leap Veronica was there too, grabbing his arm, pulling him up to his feet and leading him out of the church grounds. At the top of the steps Russell stood like a sentinel. Only when they disappeared round the corner did Russell go back inside.

  Sam and Clarissa sat beside each other on the Chesterfield, looking up at Susan who stood in front of them, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Please Susan… sit down,” said Clarissa.

  Susan was not sure about sitting down, it made all of this a little too cosy for her liking, but finally she did, perching on the edge of Clarissa’s balloon backed chair. Susan was sporting a black eye, she also had cuts and scratches across one cheek and in their own way both Sam and Clarissa were unsettled by this.

  Sam was furious with Clarissa for buzzing her up but he knew why she had done it. He knew that Clarissa felt rather sorry for Susan, and he also knew that on several occasions Clarissa had tried to warn her about Zack, but of course Susan didn’t listen, stumbling blindly on until disaster struck. Clarissa even made excuses for her following the incident at Bellini’s, which Sam thought ridiculous, in fact they had argued about it, Clarissa refusing to blame Susan for her actions, and Sam accusing her of condoning them.

  “How are you?” asked Clarissa, awkwardly.

  “How do you think I am?” said Susan.

  “I’m not sure you should be here, actually,” said Sam not prepared to go through pleasantries with this nutcase.

  “Yes, well, I might have known you’d say that.”

  “How can we help?” asked Clarissa.