DEATHLOOP Page 3

  Once, when he’d had a drink or two, Sam brought the subject up, not directly, but sort of skirted round it. Neither of his parents denied the allegation, allowing Sam his few moments of rightful indignation before changing the subject. What Sam found most galling was that they didn’t even have the decency to be ashamed.

  When Sam married Clarissa, Sam’s parents were excited, mainly because they thought that with Clarissa’s background and good looks there was a fifty-fifty chance of their grandson being at least average looking and of average intelligence, unlike Sam, who they considered a catastrophe in every department. And when they failed to conceive, his parents made it clear they thought the problem was Sam’s. How could a woman as cultured and as beautiful as Clarissa be unable to produce children? It was crazy even to think it. So, in his own way Sam had managed to dash their hopes once more.

  It wasn’t just that Zack felt sorry for Sam, far from it. Zack would never spend time with anyone he didn’t really want to be with. Sure, he had about as much compassion as the next man, which in truth, is not very much, but being with Sam was not an act of charity, far from it, plus Sam had paid him back in spades over the years, picking him up each time he took a tumble.

  “I love him, that’s all,” Zack would say when questioned, secretly acknowledging the fact that no one in his life mattered more than Sam Stein, and so if Sam’s good wife needed to be indulged for an hour or so, indulge her he would.

  Sam and Clarissa lived in a rather grand mansion block in Baker Street, in one of those flats rather like the Tardis that had much more space within them than you ever thought possible at the front door. Clarissa had done the place out with expensive swags and flounces, sequined cushions and patchwork velvet quilts and replacing the window panes with airport glass to deaden the noise of traffic from the street below only added to the sensation Sam once suggested, of being encased in a top quality padded cell.

  Zack arrived a few minutes late, full of apologies. Clarissa brushed them aside and took him by the arm leading him down the rather claustrophobic hall, lined with books and objets d’art.

  “You hate me for this, don’t you?” said Clarissa, as they walked along side by side.

  “Fear not, old friend, you’re still on the Christmas card list.”

  “And when’s the last time you sent a Christmas card to anyone, ever…”

  They entered an expansive room, bordered with antiques, where Clarissa indicated for Zack to sit down on a Chesterfield that took pride of place, bang in the middle of the floor. Sam loved this Chesterfield and had refused point blank all entreaties from Clarissa to dispense with it and get something more stylish. Generally speaking, they agreed on décor, mainly because Sam backed down in just about every dispute they ever had, but he stuck his heels in with this. “We are not getting rid of it,” he told Clarissa with rare grit, “so let’s just drop the subject, shall we?”

  Clarissa had finally managed to get him to agree to it being recovered with aubergine cotton velvet, but that was it, a concession, nothing more. When it arrived back from the upholsterers Clarissa was quite surprised at how good it looked, and from wanting to bin the thing, decided that for once Sam was right to insist on its reprieve. Zack sank into Sam’s Chesterfield now, refusing a drink he simply said, “Let’s just get on with it shall we? I don’t have that long.”

  Clarissa told Zack to pull off his shoes, to lay back, and to make himself comfortable. Clarissa pulled up a Victorian balloon backed chair, perching next to him. She knew Zack felt foolish, she knew also that he regretted agreeing to this, consequently, she knew she had something to prove.

  “Now listen Zack, please, whatever happens don’t come out of the hypnosis yourself, however… well… hairy it gets.”

  “Hairy?” said Zack, a little alarmed now.

  “You must let me bring you back slowly, don’t think of trying to stop it yourself, that can cause real problems.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Zack with a grin.

  As Clarissa told Zack to close his eyes and started speaking extremely quietly, Zack stifled a desire to burst out laughing. What on earth was he doing here? Lying on a sofa, listening to his best friend’s wife who everyone knew was a little left field, trying to get him to plunge the depths of his memory and come up with a scenario that placed him where? Floundering in the ranks of Oliver Cromwell’s army? Fighting in the trenches in the First World War? The whole thing was absolute tripe.

  Zack continued thinking along these lines until he was suddenly aware that he had no sense of being in the room at all. He could barely hear Clarissa now, just some hum - was it from the fridge, or the washing machine maybe? He squinted out of one eye to reassure himself and saw Clarissa miles away, tiny, like a marionette. How could she be that far away, the room wasn’t that vast, was it? And why had she moved her chair? He didn’t remember her moving her chair. His eye lid snapped shut again, rather like someone had clawed it down in temper. He felt strange now, in limbo, suspended in a heavy atmosphere, and then without warning he was somewhere else, floating up the narrow staircase of a small stone cottage, and at the top of the stairs, across the landing, he pushed open a creaking door and stepped inside a room.

  A bulbous ewer stood on a wash stand, a wool coat hung limply on the back of the door, and an old iron bedstead covered with a blood stained counterpane dominated the room. For a moment, Zack thought he was alone, but he wasn’t. A slight, emaciated figure peeked out from under the bed covers, his skull tightly bound with jaundiced skin, his long lank grey hair streaked with white and matted. He was immobile this man, but his haunted eyes swept and searched. Who the hell was this?

  Almost as soon as the thought came into Zack’s head, the man’s arms shot out, his rough hands clutching Zack at the throat.

  “Zachariah… at last you’ve come… help me!”

  Zack recoiled and tried to loosen the man’s grasp, but his arthritic fingers, like the gnarled roots of a tree, held fast. Suddenly his ghastly face was right up close, and then his mouth widened, forced open by a torrent of blood-like projectile vomit that shot out and painted Zack’s face. The blood was every shade of red, crimson, damson, almost black, and now the force of it was finding its way under Zack’s eye lids round the back of his eyeballs, through his ears and up his nostrils, ending up at the back of his throat, and from there, seeping down within him, he was swallowing it.

  As the blood started burrowing its way into Zack’s veins and coursing through him, he felt it burst triumphantly into the open cavities of his lungs, making him gasp and splutter for clean air. He had a sense that his own blood was no match for this livid transfusion which was taking over, looting him, running riot. Soon his life force would be vanquished and replaced, soon he would be someone else!

  In genuine fear for his life and with a violent strength he pushed the beast from him, forced open his eyes and leapt up to see Clarissa flying across the room and landing with a bump. Had he done that? Had he? He leant down, grabbed his shoes and his body shot through with panic, he raced from the room, bolted along the hall and flung himself out of the flat.

  Too agitated to wait for the lift, he fled down the narrow winding stairs of the apartment block to ground level, out of the heavy glass double doors, along the street that seemed to be bathed in a brilliant white light, causing each person he passed to look like a walking skeleton. Fear and a sickly smell of death and contamination did not leave him until he plunged into a coffee shop, still carrying his shoes, and aware that everyone was gazing up at him, he knocked into a table then sat down at it.

  Three young office workers looked affronted at the intrusion. They shuffled their chairs a little to give him space, their conversation killed stone dead, coffee at sea in their cups.

  “Are you okay, mate?” said one, frowning slightly.

  “Yes, I am now. Sorry, sorry about that,” said Zack his hands slapped on the table to steady it, “had a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  “
You should grab a tea or something, sugar’s meant to be good for all that.”

  Zack nodded, realising now he had left his wallet in his jacket back at Clarissa’s. “Look… I’m sorry but can I ask you? Is there blood on my face?”

  “Blood?”

  “Yes, blood?”

  “No, mate, what… you been in an accident or something?”

  “Yes, that’s right, I have.”

  Understanding now, the three young men smiled reassuringly at Zack. Thank God, he thought, how lovely here in the real world. The world I know, the only world I know.

  CHAPTER 4

  Back in his office Zack stood at the window gazing down to the street below. He didn’t hear Sam come in but he did hear him clear his throat.

  “You survived then? No need to send out the cavalry.”

  “Catch you later, Sam,” said Zack quietly, without even turning to look at him, “under the cosh a bit here.”

  Noting that Zack’s desk was completely devoid of any kind of work at all, Sam turned and left, crossing Rose at the doorway.

  “Karl Wake is here, Zack, shall I bring him in?”

  “No, cancel Rose would you.”

  “Cancel?” said Rose, convinced she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “That’s what I said”

  “But how can I?” said Rose, “he’s up here already, he’s sitting in reception right now.”

  “You’ll come up with something,” said Zack, “use your imagination.”

  “Zack, are you okay?” she said. “Are you ill or something?”

  “Get rid of him I said, and cancel everyone else.”

  Bristling slightly, Rose turned and left, slowing only in the passageway to think up an excuse for Karl Wake. She caught Sam’s eye as she passed his office which was enough to make him pick up his phone and call Clarissa.

  Zack remained at the window for quite some time. He was aware of life going on all round him, people in and out of rooms, piercing laughter from the water cooler, a couple of comments about a television programme from the night before and a lot of indecipherable chatter. Zack felt detached from it all, isolated, a small rowing boat out at sea. Even when head honcho, Geoff Turner came in, his head jutting out at that weird angle from his neck, his cheeks red and puffed up, his eyes darting, scanning for trouble when there never really was any, Zack failed to muster the right amount of deference somehow.

  A couple of people asked him if he was all right. He told them perhaps he was coming down with something: it was possible. The stock reply was that there were quite a few bugs doing the rounds and he should take it easy, the usual office drivel. Then the phone rang, insolent, intrusive. Eventually he picked up.

  “Zack?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “It’s Clarissa”

  “Yes, Clarissa, hello.”

  “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Tonight?” he asked, as though the concept of night following day was one that had passed him by entirely.

  “I need to speak to you,” she said.

  Of course, it was Wednesday, and the first in the month. They had this ritual Clarissa, Sam and Zack, they met at Bellini’s in Covent Garden, all smoky glass windows, brilliant white table cloths, and disparaging waiters but with discretion guaranteed.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, but for the first time ever Zack would have liked to have chickened out.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, an echo of guilt in her voice.

  “I’m absolutely fine,” he lied.

  “You left your jacket here, I’ll bring it.”

  “You do that, Clarissa, and I’ll see you later.”

  Both Clarissa and Zack stared at their phones as they put them down as though somehow they would tell them more than they already knew, and what they both already knew was this: things would never quite be the same again between Zack, Sam and Clarissa, but what they could not possibly have known at that moment, was how much of an understatement that notion would turn out to be.

  An hour later, back at his vantage point, Zack noticed the bright red of Susan’s mackintosh as she darted through traffic to cross the street. On the pavement opposite at a better angle, she looked up to his window, a hand shielding her eyes. Even from this distance Zack sensed her neediness that had finally done for her, at least done for her in his eyes. She waved. She’d seen him and waved then she beckoned, impatiently.

  Zack left his office and headed towards the lift. By the time he had reached street level Susan was pacing outside the revolving glass doors. It was a little too close for comfort for Zack, who tried immediately to lead her off in another direction but Susan would not budge.

  “Susan, please don’t do this,” he said, glancing round for any potential witnesses to their encounter.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “If you want to speak to me then fine, but don’t come here. This is where I work.”

  “Oh I see, ashamed of me now are you?”

  What an inappropriate comment Zack thought, it implied they were still together but they were not together, and they never would be again.

  “What is it?” said Zack, “what do you want?”

  “You said we’d talk, that we’d meet and talk.”

  “I don’t think I said that exactly.”

  “Yes you did.”

  “Look… I made a mistake,” he said, noting how Susan looked hopeful suddenly, “I mean… I could have timed it better.”

  “Yes, you could,” she said, “and not timed it at all.”

  Zack could see her looking deep into his eyes as though in search of something. Should he tell her that there was nothing there and there never had been? That he was simply a male of the species: vacuous, selfish, predatory and self-serving, without depth or insight, and certainly with very little in the way of altruism. Susan was really beginning to irritate him now. How had he ever thought of this woman as attractive? Her eyes were too close together, her nose was too long and her mouth too big, all those things he loved at the beginning now seemed hideous.

  “Listen,” said Zack, keen to put an end to the misery, “I’ll call, we’ll talk, but please Susan, don’t come here again.”

  Zack turned back into the building and crossed reception, but noticed as he waited for the lift that she was still there, gazing in at him, like a child who had spied a toy in a shop window and was yearning for it. She remained in exactly the same place while he waited, her gaze resolute. Zack was relieved when the lift doors opened and then shut behind him, closing off the view.

  As Susan eventually went off, she found her eye drawn to a boy walking towards her, thin, scruffy, hood up, his eyes deeply distracted by something. He shot Susan a brief glance as they passed which brought her to a halt. She swung round to find him through the crowd and saw him hesitate, before pushing his way into Zack’s building. There was something vaguely familiar about this boy. She recognized him from somewhere, she knew she did. But after a moment’s thought when she failed to come up with anything, she dismissed it. Susan was late back from lunch as it was.

  Jason Heart, a little in awe of his surroundings, stepped inside Emerson Buildings and looked around. He didn’t think the place would be this big and it seemed Zack’s company was not the only one at this address either. Jason hadn’t bargained on that. A desk ran along one wall and a couple of solid women sat behind it. He walked towards them and waited. One of the receptionists, Betty Dibbs, fifty two years old, wary and hefty, but immaculately turned out, chose not to meet Jason’s gaze. She’d spotted him straight away as he crossed towards her and did not like what she saw. Finally, tired of waiting to be acknowledged, Jason spoke up.

  “Zack Fortune, Nyman Holder and Drew,” he said, as Betty tried to look busy.

  “Yes, thank you, I do know where he works,” she said eventually, with a swift, insincere smile.

  “I’m here to see him.”

  “Are you indeed?”

  “Yes I am.”
r />   “In what capacity?”

  “What?”

  “Are you a client, or a friend?”

  “A client and a friend, I’m both.”

  “And Mr Fortune is expecting you, is he?”

  “What?”

  “You have an appointment?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the name is?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Patrick Obiukwu, the security guard was watching proceedings closely from his desk up by the main doors as Betty shot him a look, brief, but crystal clear.

  “How can I tell him you’ve arrived for your appointment if I don’t know your name?” said Betty, stringing him along now, just for the fun of it.

  “Tell him to come here, or I’ll just go up, what floor’s he on?” said Jason turning towards the lift.

  “Oh no, young man, I don’t think so.”

  By now Patrick had arrived trying to look like he meant business when in fact he only took the job because he was unlikely to encounter any trouble, any real trouble that is. (Patrick had a degree in comparative religion which seemed to cut no ice at all down at the job centre in Streatham, this position was best of the bunch.)

  “Show our young friend out would you, Patrick, please, he’s just leaving.”

  “No I’m not,” said Jason, backing off from Patrick’s gentle steer.

  “Now, boy,” said Patrick, stooping down and fixing Jason with his hangdog watery gaze, “you want me to call the Metropolitan police authorities, or for Miss Betty here to hail a panda car into the vicinity?”

  Betty rather liked it when Patrick called her Miss Betty, in fact, Betty rather liked Patrick full stop. She’d told him once that she went to salsa on Fridays in De Beauvoir and if he wanted to join her sometime he could.

  Patrick was courteous but noncommittal, knowing he would never take her up on the invitation. Women could be vicious when crossed and if it all went sour his job would be in jeopardy. Better by far to maintain a professional distance. That way he would remain in employment, and that way he would still have enough money at the end of each month to send back to his wife Genevieve and his eight children in Awka Etiti. And anyway… Miss Betty had tree trunk legs.