Pretty Little Dead Things (37 page)

  I send my thoughts to the dead ones, the ones I have loved and continue to love, and then I turn and walk away, across the brown grass and the gravel path, continuing on my pilgrimage in the hope that one day I will find a question on which to pin all the answers I have unearthed and the ones that wait to be discovered.

Thanks so much to Steve Jones and Sarah Pinborough for giving me a kick up the arse when I really needed it; to Stephen Volk for some vital comments on an early draft; to Ramsey Campbell, Stephen Volk (again), Christopher Fowler and Tim Lebbon for being kind enough to read the manuscript and give me a blurb; to Mark West for reading when it mattered; to Marco and Lee at Angry Robot for having faith in me; to Jon Oliver for giving me that first important shot at the mass market; to Gary Fry and John Probert for invaluable support and friendship; to Simon Strantzas for brotherhood; to Simon Bestwick for the encouragement; to Andy Cox and Pete Tennant for their invaluable support over the last few years; to Chris Teague for first publishing me; to Mark Morris for being a good pal and offering sound advice; and to Charlie and Emily – my amazing little family – for being the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

  If I've forgotten anyone, please accept my sincere apologies. It's been a crazy few years…

Gary McMahon's short fiction has appeared in numerous acclaimed magazines and anthologies in the UK and US and has been reprinted in yearly "Best of" collections.

  He is the multiple-award-nominated author of the novellas
Rough Cut
and
All Your Gods Are Dead
, the collections
Dirty
Prayers
and
How to Make Monsters
and
Pieces of Midnight
, and the novels
Rain Dogs
and
Hungry Hearts.

  He has been nominated for seven different British Fantasy Awards as both author and editor.

I knew exactly why I'd been summoned to Soho, of course, but still I had no idea what I was doing there. When Professor Theo Dryer had asked me to attend, as a personal favour to him, I felt obliged to accept his invitation. Dryer was an old friend of mine, the head of the Anthropology and Social Studies Department at Leeds University, and the acknowledged leader in his narrow field. There was also the fact that I owed the old bugger a favour or two.

  As I stood outside the weather-beaten wooden door on a busy side street not far from Soho Square, where many film production companies and the British Board of Film Classification all have their offices, I considered, just for a moment, walking away. I wasn't sure what I was going to see there, in that room beneath three floors of grubby apartments where "European Models" plied their trade, but something – and I
refuse
to call it my fucking "Sixth Sense" – told me it would lead only to trouble of the gravest kind.

  "Are we going in, then?"

  Dryer placed a hand on my arm, as if attempting to reassure me. I smiled but he didn't buy it; Dryer knew me well enough to realise that I was nervous. The truth was it went beyond that: if I'm going to be honest, I have to admit that I was afraid.

  "Yes. I suppose we should. We're expected." I stepped aside, glancing up at the old stone building, and then both ways along the street, which was crosshatched with late afternoon shadow. His own reticence was due to some kind of residual concern at the thought of being seen entering a premises used as a whore house rather than any genuine fear of being followed. I motioned to Dryer, allowing him inside first. After all, he was the important one, the man with links to the government. I was simply his somewhat reluctant guest.

  The stairway was long, steep and narrow, with no banister or handrail, and we were forced to place our hands against the flaking plaster wall to aid our passage downward. A single yellow bulb lit the otherwise gloomy space, but it wasn't doing a particularly good job. I couldn't see my feet; they were shrouded in darkness, as if lost in a low-lying fog.

  The scarred door at the foot of the timber stairs was closed, and it had no handle. It was painted a putrid lime green colour but the once glossy finish had faded long ago, and now the surface looked decrepit and rough as an old man's cheek.

  We stood before the door, neither of us saying anything. The bulb fizzed and hissed above our heads and I was gripped by the sudden fear that it might fail.

  "Well, this is it," said Dryer, adjusting his woollen coat. His face was pale and his eyes refused to settle on one thing for longer than a second or two. In all the years I'd known him, I'd never seen him in such a state.

  "This is what?" I turned to him, opening my arms in an expansive gesture. "I know the official explanation, but why are we really here?"

  "You know as much as I do, Thomas. All they told me was that it was a matter of high importance and that it had something to do with national security. I'm surprised they let you tag along to be honest, but your name seems to open doors even you are unaware of."

  I nodded, pretending I knew what he was talking about. "So we're here to see a presentation, a special lecture of some sort. But why here, in this grubby little place?"

  Dryer shuffled his feet. There was gravel on the floor and it made a grating sound as he moved. "All they said was that they needed my professional opinion, and when I mentioned you they seemed delighted. They said that your line of work was connected to what they had to show me."

  I was none the wiser, so said nothing more.

  "Shall we?" said Dryer, licking his lips.

  "By all means."

  He reached out and rapped his knuckles on the door, to the left of where the handle should be. Within moments it was opened by a large man with a shaven head and a looping black tribal tattoo on the side of his neck. The man's eyes were small, like those of a pig. He looked hard as nails.

  "My name is Professor Theodore Dryer, and this is Thomas Usher."

  The big man nodded once, and then stepped deftly to the side. "They're waiting for you," he said in a voice that sounded like distant thunder. "Just go down the stairs and wait."

  The door closed behind us and we were swallowed by a murky red light that emanated from hidden fittings at the tops of the walls, right up near the ceiling. The air was damp, musty. There was a smell that I could not identify and my insides were gripped with nausea so strong that I felt I might start to dry-heave.

  "Are you okay?" said Dryer, sensing my discomfort.

  "I'll be fine in a minute. Can't you feel it? The atmosphere."

  "It's very cold, and the air
is
rather stale, but that's about it." Dryer slowed his pace, waiting until I drew level. "Is there something… well, you know. Something otherworldly here?"

  I laughed; a short, sharp sound in the cramped corridor. I expected it to echo but instead it was absorbed by the clammy bare-brick walls. "Stop being so melodramatic, Dryer. I just feel a bit sick, that's all."

  Dryer grinned, and for a moment he looked like a schoolboy who has been caught out in a prank. Then we descended a second staircase, this one metal and obviously recently installed. It was cleaner than the rest of the interior, and its surface was smooth and painted blue.

  There was a tiny waiting area at the bottom of this second set of stairs, with four rickety wooden dining chairs arranged against the wall opposite yet another door that was missing its handle. Dryer sat down, resting his head against the wall, but I chose to stand, as yet unsure of what exactly I was getting myself into.

  My stomach was still grumbling. It felt like the beginnings of an ulcer, but I'd had the all-clear after my annual medical check-up only three weeks earlier. There was something strange here, something I'd not encountered before: a weird formless energy that was not exactly a bone fide presence, but held some sort of malevolent intelligence all the same.

  We did not have long to wait until the door was opened. A short, wide woman in a black smock and white dog collar stood in the doorway, a nervous smile on her face. "Professor Dryer?"

  I shook my head and tilted it at my seated companion. "That's him. My name is Usher."

  The woman glanced quickly away, and I was certain I saw an expression of mild disdain cross her face at the sound of my name. "Professor. My name is Cleo Quaid, and I'm the one who suggested you come here this evening."

  "Ah," said Dryer, standing and extending a hand. "Reverend Dr. Quaid. It's so nice to meet you at last. You've already met my friend Thomas Usher…"

  "Yes," said Quaid, shaking his hand with her fingertips. "I am well aware of the reputation of Mr. Usher, and I can't say I approve of his presence here. Sadly, my opinion was not considered important enough to matter."

  Frustration vented, she walked back inside the room and left us to follow. I glanced at Dryer; he shrugged, and gave a twisted little smirk. Then he went inside, with me bringing up the rear.

  Quaid was standing at one end of the small room, pouring herself a large measure of whisky from a selection of spirits on a small silver tray which rested on a filing cabinet. She was pouting, obviously put out by my presence, but I tried to ignore her surly form as Dryer and I drifted to the centre of the room. Two other men were standing there, talking in low tones, and a third man, this one much younger than the others, stood at a low table fiddling with a small laptop computer.

  "Gentlemen! Glad you could make it." Neville Brand, a lowlevel back bench MP surged forward, a smile on his face and a drink in his hand. Unless I was mistaken, his companion was Lance Benedict, the head of a major digital communications cartel who ran several pay-as-you-view television channels and owned a string of tacky newsstand magazines. My heart sank when I saw him. I'd been warned by Dryer that the smug bastard would be there, of course, but the sight of him affected me more than I'd expected. More than I would have liked.

  Not exactly what I'd call good company: doctors, holy fools and media moguls. At that moment, in that squalid little room, I wished that I'd walked away when I had the chance. I still hold to that wish now, with all of my heart.

  "I'm particularly glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Usher. Or can I call you Thomas?" The smile on Benedict's face was enough to make me want to hit him. But I didn't. I remained calm and in control. I had a feeling I'd need exactly these qualities later on in the proceedings.

  "Mr. Usher will do just fine, Lance."

  The smile faltered; he wasn't quite yet sure what to make of me.

  "Don't worry; I don't bear a grudge. I realise you're simply trying to sell magazines, like any other money-grubbing piece of dirt." I held his gaze as I spoke, unwilling to back down until he knew I meant business.

  "Please… Mr Usher. Surely that's all in the past?"

  "You called me a fraud, Lance. A faker. You even went on some stupid daytime TV show to speak out against people who – now, what were your exact words? Oh, yes: 'feed on the grief of the damaged and the grief-stricken.' Nice turn of phrase. Very poetic."

  Benedict took a deep swallow from his glass. His cheeks had flushed red and he was beginning to sweat. "Listen, I apologised for that later. We printed a retraction in
Look Now!"

  "A tiny three-line article stuck at the back of the magazine, under the classified ads. Very noble of you, I'm sure." I had him on the ropes now, and because of a misplaced sense of pity, I decided to move in for the kill much sooner that I'd planned. "That boy, the one I was trying to help rid of his ghosts? Billy Taylor. Fourteen years old, bullied at school, comfort-eating to ease the nightmare his life had become. He hung himself from a tree in a nearby park two days after your television appearance. Did you know that?"

  The room was silent. Everyone present was listening, waiting to see what would happen next. I walked away, sparing everyone the embarrassment. Reverend Quaid had now moved away from the drinks cabinet, so I poured myself a stiff measure of rum and stood against the wall, signalling the fact that I'd called a cease-fire.

  "If we can all take our seats," said Brand, his political mask slipping back into place. "Then I'm sure we'd all like to find out why we're here."

  Everyone moved towards the folding chairs that had been placed at the centre of the room, facing a small screen which was suspended from the ceiling. The young man by the laptop walked across to the light switch and doused the lights. The screen shone white before us, and again I was overcome by a sense of nausea.

  Brand stood and made his way to the screen, one of those retractable pointers favoured by university lecturers in his hand. He nodded at the man operating the laptop and a PowerPoint display began to run through its paces.

  "This is a scan of the floor plans of a place called Daleside House, an old psychiatric building in the north east, near the Scottish borders." He pointed with his stick and watched us, taking note of our puzzled expressions.

  I glanced away from the fuzzy architectural blueprints and studied my fellow audience. Quaid was well into her second drink. Brand was glowering at the screen. Dryer had a bemused look on his kindly face.

  "Nothing much to write home about, you might think. And you'd be right… but for one thing. This place, the Daleside, has long been rumoured to be haunted. The area has been the site of strange lights in the sky, mutilated cattle on local farms, and other random occurrences for decades."

  Photographs flipped across the screen, grainy images of cylindrical objects in the sky, figures at windows, and a particularly bemusing shot of a tall, skinny man holding what looked like a large squid wearing a sheepskin coat.