Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller Page 13

  ‘Well,’ Sam said, as Calloway led him further down the corridor, ‘it’s not as bad as I expected.’

  And then, as if on cue, the shouting started. At first it was restrained: an urgent request to speak to a wife, a demand for something to eat; but almost like a ripple effect, as soon as it became clear that there was an officer walking by, the entire corridor seemed to explode into a torrent of desperate men clamouring to have their voices heard.

  ‘Pipe down, you lot,’ Calloway bellowed. ‘The duty officer will be along to deal with you soon enough. There’s no point banging on to me about your problems. I’m not here for you.’

  His request for calm was only half met. The shouting eventually subdued, but not completely. Sam stayed close to Calloway, relieved that Sarah wasn’t with him.

  They reached the end of the corridor and turned left into a section marked Juvenile Facility. Here there were only two doors: J1 and J2.

  ‘Only two cells?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Despite what you see on the news, it’s still relatively uncommon to detain juveniles. Kids get a bad press these days,’ Calloway replied, checking the paper record stuck to the door. ‘He’s in here.’ He slid back the hatch and peered inside. ‘Good morning, Stephen. You have a visitor here to see you.’ He slid the hatch back into place and looked at Sam. ‘It’s just him and his lawyer. Are you absolutely sure you want to go in?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Okay.’ Calloway punched a four digit code into the keyboard, and immediately there was a reassuring clunk as four steel bolts slid back and the door swung open.

  As soon as he saw the boy, Sam knew he had nothing to fear. He was sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, either too scared or too embarrassed to sit up and look his victim in the eye. Sam drew a certain degree of confidence from this, but there was something about the boy’s reluctance to face him that saddened him. He was expecting to meet the same defiant, menacing kid who had so aggressively threatened both him and the old lady on the train. That, in a way, would have been easier to deal with. But this was a different kid. Physically he was the same – there was no mistaking him – but emotionally? No. There was no hostility, no alcohol-fuelled arrogance. This boy was broken.

  ‘Mr Railton,’ Sergeant Calloway said, beginning the introductions. ‘This is Mr Smethwick, the lawyer acting on behalf of Stephen Gilchrist. Mr Smethwick, this is Mr Railton, the man your client assaulted two days ago.’

  ‘Allegedly assaulted,’ replied Smethwick, holding out his hand for Sam to shake. ‘Let’s not be so hasty to jump to conclusions, eh?’

  Calloway smiled. ‘Come off it, Bill. You’ve seen the evidence. Not even a slippery eel like you can work your way out of this one. He’s as guilty as sin,’ he said, turning to the boy. ‘Aren’t you, lad?’

  The boy didn’t look up, but acknowledged the officer’s question with a nod. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled.

  ‘See?’ Calloway said. ‘He’s admitted it himself. There’s no-’

  ‘Sergeant Calloway,’ Sam interjected. ‘Can I talk to Mr Gilchrist? Please?’

  Calloway stared at him, annoyed to have had his victory speech so abruptly cut off. Nevertheless, he could see the urgency in Sam’s eyes, so allowed him to continue. ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sam said. ‘Mr Gilchrist…Stephen,’ he said, returning his attention to the boy. ‘Look, I don’t want to have a go at you, okay? I can see that you’re upset, but I’d like to talk to you for a minute. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?’

  ‘I didn’t do it, Mr Railton,’ replied the boy, maintaining his focus on the cell floor. ‘I admit I was there on that bridge, but it wasn’t me, I swear. I only wanted to frighten you…give you a scare for embarrassing me in front of my friends. That’s all it was, I promise.’

  ‘Come off it, Stephen,’ Calloway said. ‘We have it all recorded. Besides, you’ve already confessed, so-’

  ‘I know,’ the boy said, beginning to sob through his words. ‘It was me who threw the punches, but he was forcing me to…he said if I didn’t do it to you then he would do it to me, only worse…much worse. I didn’t have any option. He was so…scary.’

  ‘Most likely the drugs,’ said Calloway, turning to Smethwick, who accepted the officer’s theory with a resigned nod.

  ‘It wasn’t the drugs, I swear it wasn’t! It was him!’

  ‘Who?’ asked Sam, lowering his voice in an attempt to deescalate the rising tension in the cell. ‘Who made you do it?’

  ‘A man,’ replied the boy, still refusing to look up. ‘I couldn’t see him very clearly, but there was this man. At first he was following me, and then he appeared out of nowhere right in front of me. I was terrified,’ he said, crying now. ‘He was so angry and…and mean-looking. His suit was all torn and he was wearing this weird old hat.’

  Sam’s pulse raced as the boy described him. He’d almost managed to convince himself that everything he’d seen – his sister, the dark figure…everything – was entirely due to the enormous pressure he’d been under. But now here was somebody else claiming to have witnessed the same damn figure, describing him the exact same way. Especially the hat: that was too much of a coincidence to be passed off as the drug-addled hallucinations of a young kid. Maybe this figure, this man, that they’d both seen was real. Maybe for some unknown reason he’d taken it upon himself to follow Sam around like a deranged stalker, and then to threaten the kid if he refused to beat him up. But why? If that was the case, then who was he and what was his motive? What did he have against Sam? And why hadn’t the CCTV picked him up?

  Sam winced at the relentless pounding in his skull, the pain compounded by his confused state. He’d come to the police station to confront the boy who’d put him in hospital and to force the little shit to apologise to him in person, but an apology was now the last thing on his mind. He needed to know more about the man on the bridge.

  ‘Stephen,’ he said, his tone now deadly serious. ‘Look at me, Stephen. I need you to look at me.’

  ‘No,’ replied the boy, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t look at you. She told me not to…she warned me I’d be in serious danger if I did.’

  Sam felt the colour drain from his cheeks. ‘She?’ he said, dreading the answer but needing to know. ‘Who’s She?’

  Slowly, the boy raised his head, his eyes as black as death. ‘The girl,’ he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘The girl in the white dress. She was on the bridge too. She told me he would get me if I looked at you.’

  Their eyes met, and Sam’s initial reaction was to projectile vomit onto the cell floor in front of him, causing both Calloway and Smethwick to simultaneously cry out and jump back in disgust. As he did so, he felt an intense release of pent-up pressure pouring out of every orifice, making him moan out loud with unbridled relief. It was as if somebody had drilled holes into his skull: the pain in his head that had plagued him constantly during the previous two days flowed out of him, until eventually his headache disappeared completely. He wanted to cry, such was the sense of relief, but he didn’t have the energy. Instead, he flopped down onto the bench like a deflated balloon and slumped against the wall, unable to move.

  ‘Mr. Railton!’ Calloway shouted, hurrying across the room. ‘Mr Railton, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Can I ge-’

  ‘Help me,’ whispered the boy, interrupting the sergeant. ‘Somebody help me.’

  All eyes went immediately to the boy, who sat crumpled on the floor like a discarded ragdoll, knees clutched to his chest and eyes rolling in their sockets like marbles in a tin.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Calloway,’ Smethwick shouted, dropping to his knees beside the boy and placing a hand on his brow. ‘Do something, will you? He’s having some kind of seizure. Call an ambulance. Now!’

  Smethwick had to repeat himself before Calloway finally realised what was going on and reached for the receiver attached to his belt. ‘This is Sergeant Calloway,’ he
said, forcing himself to focus on procedure. ‘We have a collapsed adolescent in J2 in need of urgent medical assistance. I repeat, we have a collapsed adolescent in J2 in need of urgent medical assistance. Requesting an ambulance be sent to the station. I repeat, we need an ambulance here immediately.’

  Calloway turned to check on Sam, who appeared to be returning to his senses. ‘Stay here,’ he said, addressing both Smethwick and Sam, ‘I need to run for backup. Stay with the boy. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Smethwick was too focused on the boy to reply. Sam nodded weakly and watched as Calloway bounded from the cell, almost ripping the door from its reinforced hinges as he slammed it into the wall on the way out. When he was gone, Sam struggled to his feet and made his way tentatively across the floor to the boy, who by now was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog; his eyes having rolled completely back up into their sockets, reminding Sam of the possessed girl from The Exorcist.

  Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably only three or four minutes, the wailing cry of an ambulance siren could be heard approaching in the distance. Sam knelt down and gently placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. There was no response.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Smethwick replied. ‘I’m guessing it’s some kind of epileptic fit.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll be okay?’

  ‘How the hell would I know? I’m a lawyer not a doctor. At least he’s breathing. Anyway, what happened to you back there?’

  ‘I don’t know. As soon as he looked up at me I came over all strange. It felt like I was being turned inside out. Perhaps it was the trauma of seeing him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Smethwick, unconvinced. ‘You know, Stephen is convinced there was a man and a woman up on that bridge with him. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t see anyone?’

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘He said he saw a girl, not a woman.’

  ‘You saw her too, didn’t you? You and Stephen weren’t alone up there, were you?’

  Sam looked away. ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘But you heard someone, didn’t you?’ Smethwick stared directly at him. ‘This is important, Mr Railton. If there was somebody up else there, if there-’

  ‘There wasn’t, okay? You saw the footage. I didn’t see anyone. I thought for a second that I may have heard some voices, but obviously I was mistaken. It was probably the wind or something. I appreciate you’re only doing your job, Mr Smethwick, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  Smethwick sighed. ‘You ought to get yourself back to hospital for a check-up, Mr. Railton. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘I will,’ Sam lied, his brain recalling what the Gilchrist boy had said: The little girl in the white dress. She told me he would get me if I looked at you. What on earth was going on? What had Stephen Gilchrist seen on that bridge?

  Maybe I do need a check-up, Sam thought, turning towards the sound of ambulance personnel running down the corridor towards the cell.

  One thing was certain: hearing things was bad enough, but not nearly as bad as seeing them...

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Charles Holdsworth was the kind of man who drew attention to himself wherever he went. Despite being three months shy of his sixtieth birthday, he had an aura that drew people to him like moths to a flame. At six foot four and with a back as straight as an iron rod, he had a powerful physical presence that was impossible to ignore. He knew as much, of course, and revelled in his innate ability to control people like pawns on a chessboard. Master of all he surveyed, when Charles Holdsworth wanted something, or someone, he was seldom disappointed; which probably explained why he’d steered Chapman’s Design Agency to Design Agency of the Year for five out of nine of his years as its Chief Executive Officer. Not bad going for a man born into squalor in London’s East End; a man who’d had to fight for everything he’d ever earned. He may not have had the easiest start in life, but he was certainly making up for it now.

  And so, given Holdsworth’s reputation, it was with a certain degree of trepidation that Tom Jackson found himself knocking on his door at three-thirty that afternoon. Holdsworth had requested they meet for an informal catch-up, but Jackson was nervous. Informal was not a word one associated with Charles Holdsworth.

  ‘Come in,’ said a deep voice from behind the door. ‘Tom! How lovely to see you. Take a seat, why don’t you.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Charles,’ Jackson replied.

  ‘How’s Jane?’ asked Holdsworth, who was fully aware of Jackson’s penchant for any woman except his own. ‘Is she well?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Good,’ Holdsworth said, signalling the end of the formalities. ‘In that case, let’s get down to business.’ His eyes narrowed, and in an instant his demeanour changed from convivial to business-like.

  ‘I’m guessing there’s something you want to tell me…something you want me to do?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Well, I haven’t invited you in here to talk about the weather.’

  ‘No, I-’

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting, Tom, but I have to be on the other side of town in an hour so I’m going to come straight to the point. I want to know what’s going on with Sam Railton. Specifically, I want to know why you fired him without first consulting the Board.’

  Because his bitch of a wife decided to call time on our affair. Because his bitch of a wife chose HIM over ME!

  ‘Economics,’ Jackson said, knowing full well that he needed to maintain his composure if he was to convince Holdsworth that he’d done the right thing. ‘I felt it was in line with the Board’s strategy of focusing on generating new business while subcontracting some of the more creative functions. I thought that’s what was agreed?’

  ‘It was, but that doesn’t give you carte blanche to wield the axe on our best people. Sam Railton is one of the best copywriters in the whole of London. For Christ’s sake man, he practically won the Pilko account single-handedly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. After all, I gave the presentation.’

  ‘You did, and by all accounts you did a very good job, but Sam was responsible for the work behind it.’

  ‘It wasn’t only Sam. He was given a great deal of support from Gabrielle Williams, the intern. Actually, I heard that she wrote most of the copy for the website. Sam only needed to make a few minor changes before signing it off.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me, Tom. I’ve been in this game long enough to know it takes years to become a good writer. What do you take me for?’

  ‘I know that, Charles. But Gabby – Gabrielle – did play her part, and I honestly believe she has a natural flair for writing. Not to mention she’s a heck of a lot cheaper than Sam. It’s not like we’re snowed under with work at the moment.’

  ‘Chapman’s reputation is built on quality,’ Holdsworth said, growing visibly irritated. ‘Quality, quality, quality: if you get that right, the money will follow. We aren’t an agency that specialises in delivering cut-price crap. God knows there are enough of those out there. A company like ours depends entirely on the ability of its people, and in your questionable wisdom, you’ve only gone and decided to get rid of one of our best men. What possessed you to do such a thing without discussing it with me first? What are you trying to do…run us into the ground?’

  ‘It’s not like that, Charles. I-’

  ‘Don’t you realise he’ll be snapped up by another agency as soon as they hear he’s on the market? They’ll circle him like sharks, for Christ’s sake. He’s probably got something lined up already.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles, but personally I don’t think he’ll be too much of a loss to Chapman’s. I really don’t.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Holdsworth. ‘He won’t. He won’t, because we’re not going to lose him.’

  Jackson sat bolt upright in his chair.


  ‘I want you to get him back,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Whatever it takes, I want Sam Railton back at his desk come Monday morning. Is that clear?’

  ‘But…but Charles,’ Jackson said. ‘What if I can’t get him back? What if he doesn’t want to return, or what if he’s already found another job? What if it’s too late?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way,’ Holdsworth said. ‘The way I see it, we have a straightforward, black and white situation on our hands. Either you persuade Sam Railton to come back to Chapman’s, or you join him in looking for another job. I’ve got to be honest with you, Tom: if I was running another agency out there and it came down to a straight choice between hiring you or him, I bloody well know who I’d go for. Now,’ he said, standing up to signal the end of the conversation, ‘if you don’t mind, I’ve somewhere else to be. And if I’m not mistaken, you have an urgent deadline to meet.’

  Jackson rose shakily to his feet and collected his notepad from the table. For a moment he considered saying something, perhaps even trying to change Holdsworth’s mind, but he knew that would be futile. Not that Holdsworth would have replied; he’d already buttoned his overcoat and was striding purposefully towards the door. Instead, all Jackson could manage was to half-heartedly follow after his boss, scared that Holdsworth might decide to turn round and fire him anyway. He couldn’t afford to lose his job; he had a wife, a house, a debt-driven lifestyle that he’d grown accustomed to. The credit card bills were only getting bigger. Having a string of mistresses didn’t come cheap, and for how long could he expect them to hang around if he was no longer able to wine and dine them and fund those sordid afternoon sex sessions in overpriced hotels?

  He had no choice. He had to get Sam back or his life wouldn’t be worth living. In a simple twist of fate – a perverted reversal of fortunes – he would have to go crawling cap in hand to the man who’s life he had taken such pleasure in trying to destroy. He would need every ounce of his skills as a salesman to turn this around. And if he wasn’t able to? If Sam didn’t play ball? He couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t allow any negative thoughts to enter his head. He had to convince Sam.