The Dark Place by Sam Millar

Author:Sam Millar [Millar, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery
Publisher: The O'Brien Press
Published: 2013-05-21T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me.”

H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds

Karl staggered down Hill Street, feeling like a drunk as he headed homewards. He slipped twice on the cobblestones underfoot, cursing their giant-knuckle unevenness, before finally reaching the door of his office.

His hand was shaking so badly he found it difficult to work the key into the door. All about, night shadows were quickly coming undone. Soon it would be dawn.

“Come on, you bastard. Get in,” he hissed, glancing to his left and then to his right, the key seemingly getting bigger and fatter, becoming more awkward to hold.

Thankfully, the narrow street was empty – as far as he could detect – but the feeling of eyes watching him never left as the key finally hit home.

Inside the darkened hallway, he leaned against the door and held his breath.

Footsteps? Someone walking; nearing?

Thump thump thump went his heart.

The hallway seemed to be getting darker, swaying like a boat on unfriendly waters. Vertigo was kicking in. He feared being on the verge of a blackout.

Breathe, for fuck sake! Your bastarding imagination’s interfering with reason.

He quickly breathed, allowing air to fill burning lungs, until it chased everything from his head.

“Easy … easy …” The dizziness began easing.

Steadying, he entered the bathroom, gently locking the door before hitting the light switch.

“Fuck the night …” Clothing bloody and tattered.

Hesitantly, he consulted the wall mirror, directly to his left.

“Shit!” The face looking back at him was a stranger; a bloody, ashen-faced stranger, puckered skin covered in blood. He looked lost, like a mourner at the wrong funeral.

Quickly turning on the water tap, cupping hands beneath the faucet, Karl began channelling the water into his mouth. Finished, he squeezed some toothpaste from a tube on to his index finger, rubbing the gooey contents hard against his teeth.

Discarding his bloody clothing, he stepped out of their puddle and into the shower, its cold-water propulsion jolting him into alertness.

“Karl? Is that you?” asked Naomi’s muffled voice, close to the door.

Shit! “Yes … yes, love …”

“Why’s the door locked?”

He could hear her pushing against the door, fiddling with the handle.

Think! “I … I just took a terrible shit. It stank all the way to Bangor.”

“Too much information, thank you,” returned Naomi’s disgusted voice. “It’s almost five in the morning. Where’ve you been?”

“To … to the been place.”

“I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm, Karl. Why the shower at this time of the morning?”

“I …” Think, for fuck sake! “I … slipped and fell against a skip, over beside Saint Anne’s Cathedral. Some silly bastard left it filled with planks of wood and broken glass sticking out. Almost broke my bloody neck. Busted my face, a bit …”

“Oh my God, Karl! Are you okay?”

“Yes … just a few bloody scratches and on-coming bruises. I’ll feel a lot better when I sip that Hennessy you’ve got waiting for me in the bedroom,” he replied, desperately trying to make his voice sound jolly and calm.

“Want me to come in and scrub your back?”

Karl quickly glanced at the pile of bloody clothes.

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