Darkside (2 page)

 

 

T
hey were building down by the banks of the Thames, and the air shook with the rumble of diggers and the insistent drumbeat of drills. Men in hard hats and fluorescent jackets tramped around on the sand, shouting at each other through cupped hands. Spindly cranes poked up on the horizon like drinking straws. At the moment the site looked like a battlefield, scarred with holes and rubble, but in a few months, a year maybe, there would be another huge building reaching proudly up towards the heavens. It was as if the city had decided that there was no room for it to spread on the ground, and was now trying to construct a new civilization way up in the sky.

Jonathan Starling leant on the rails and watched the men as they worked, his jacket shivering in the breeze. He was a gangly fourteen-year-old with unruly brown hair that shot off in unexpected directions. His grey eyes had a haunted tint to them, and every movement he made said
leave me alone
. Concealed beneath his jacket, his school uniform was a size too small for him, and clung awkwardly to his body.

That was how a stranger might have described him, but if you had asked the people who knew Jonathan what he looked like, they would have struggled for a reply. They might have instinctively frowned or shrugged, but he just wasn't the sort of person other people took much notice of. (Then again, if you had asked Jonathan what he looked like, he wouldn't have been able to answer either. He hadn't looked in a mirror for years.)

This ability to escape attention – to disappear from sight – had come in handy down the years. It had allowed him to slip out of school without the hassle of parental notes and the suspicious inquisitions of his teachers. Instead he slipped through the front gates like a ghost, and was gone. When he should have been dozing through a chemistry lesson, or half-heartedly dragging his mud-splattered legs round the sports field, he wandered the streets of London, in search of something different. He explored the winding alleyways of Soho, picked his way through the tangled mossy graves at Highgate Cemetery, while up by Alexandra Palace he looked down on the sprawling ants' nest that was his city.

Jonathan didn't always get away with it. There were truant officers and policemen combing the streets, and particularly observant teachers who noticed his empty chair in class. From time to time he would find himself in the headmistress's office, sitting quietly as she shook her head sadly and gave him encouraging speeches. He had been suspended several times, and was now on his last warning. At least he never got into any trouble at home for it. The school had tried to bring his dad in on several occasions, and Jonathan was always careful that they received a convincing – but negative – reply. He sometimes told them that his dad was too ill to attend; and sometimes, at least, that was true.

That day the prospect of double maths had seemed too much to cope with, and Jonathan had slipped out of the school's back gate during lunch. As he was crossing London Bridge, the gleaming superstructures of Canary Wharf had caught his eye. He caught a tube train on the Jubilee Line and headed down there, making sure not to catch anyone's eye as they rattled along the Underground. By the time he had arrived it was mid-afternoon, and there were dark smudges at the edge of the cold, bright autumn sky. The broad streets and squares were still busy with people hurrying from one place to another. They kept their heads down, as if cowed by the monstrous glass buildings that reared up on all sides.

In the distance, Jonathan made out the familiar silhouette of a policeman walking down the access road towards him. It was time to move. If they started asking questions, you were done for. Trying to look as casual as possible, he walked away from the rail and headed back between two buildings towards the centre of the Wharf. The policeman shouted something at him but he pretended not to hear. As soon as he was round the corner, he broke out into a run.

Jonathan might not have been broken any records on the athletic track, but in a chase through London streets he was untouchable. He zigzagged past office workers and shoppers, cutting through a small green park where people were ice-skating across a makeshift rink. They twirled and flowed in graceful arcs as Jonathan hared past them. He heard the policeman shout again, but it was a long way back and he was losing ground all the time. Jonathan ignored the entrance to a vast shopping centre, preferring to stick to the open spaces. Shopping centres had CCTV cameras and store detectives, and were always on the lookout for kids nicking stuff. He was safer out here.

He crossed a couple of streets and found himself in a small square. A fountain tossed soothing splashes of water into the air. In the corner a small kiosk was selling coffee and snacks. The roads around the square were quiet, and there was a sense of stillness about the place that reassured Jonathan. Glancing around, he could see that he had lost the policeman. He was safe for now. He settled down on a marbled wall and caught his breath.

On one side of the square three massive buildings soared high above him, standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the clouds. The largest one was in the middle, and at its summit a light flashed on and off to warn low-flying planes of its presence. Just craning his neck up to see it made Jonathan feel small and insignificant. He wondered what it most be like to work on the top floor, to spend every day looking down on the rest of the world.

It was then that the woman caught his eye. She was jauntily crossing the square, clad in a pinstripe suit and tapping an umbrella on the ground as she went. A bowler hat was perched elegantly on one side of her head, allowing a cascade of fluorescent pink hair to fall away. Although no one else seemed to have noticed her, there was something about the woman that mesmerized Jonathan, and made it very difficult to take his eyes off her. She saw him watching her, and gave him a broad grin. Changing direction mid-stride, she began to head towards him, sending a ripple of sensation down Jonathan's skin that was as unsettling as it was unexplainable.

At the same time, the policeman entered the square from the other side, huffing and puffing and red-faced from his exertions. Jonathan got up slowly and began to edge away towards the exit. Seeing his pursuer, the woman winked at Jonathan and put a finger over her lips. She then approached the policeman, and began to ask him a long-winded question. Jonathan didn't need a second invitation – he turned and ran. Whoever that woman was, she had done him a big favour.

He was nearing the tube station when his phone began ringing in his pocket, making him jump. He fumbled around for it and checked the caller display. It was Mrs Elwood – their next-door neighbour, and his dad's only friend. That could only mean one thing. Bad news.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jonathan. It's me. Look . . . your dad's fallen ill again. They've taken him to the hospital. I'm going to drive there now. Are you still at school? I'll pick you up on the way.”

Jonathan looked around. Rows and rows of windows stared blankly back at him. “No, it's all right. I'm on my way home,” he said.

 

 

 

M
rs Elwood tapped her fingers on the steering wheel with impatience. “Bloody roadworks! Nothing's moving tonight. I'm afraid the journey's going to take an age.” She reached down to the glove compartment and extracted a couple of rather elderly sweets from the clutter. “Want one?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I'm OK.”

Mrs Elwood smiled, and gave him a quick pat on the arm. She was a tiny woman, perhaps only four foot five, with long blonde hair that reached down and tickled her waist. She needed to sit on a cushion to see over the steering wheel, and the pedals had been specially adapted to allow her feet to make contact with them. The first time he had ridden in a car with her, this unusual set-up had made Jonathan feel very nervous. That had been years ago. Now he knew that Mrs Elwood was a fast, smooth driver: not a woman to be underestimated.

“I was watching the news before you turned up,” she said, chewing thoughtfully on a toffee. “A boy your age has gone missing on a school trip. In Trafalgar Square. And in broad daylight, too! His parents must be going mad with worry.”

Jonathan grunted. He wanted to turn the radio on, but he knew that she wanted to talk to him, to try and make him feel better. As ever when his dad was ill, Jonathan was struggling with how to react. He felt that everyone expected, almost
wanted
him to be crying and wailing with anxiety. But then Alain Starling had been ill so many times, and Jonathan had spent so many hours waiting in draughty hospital corridors, that he didn't really have the strength to feel anything any more. This was just . . . what happened.

“How did you find out about Dad?” he asked.

“I saw the ambulance going past from my front window. I had a horrible premonition it was for him. So I went outside, and saw it parked outside your house.” She sighed. “Oh, it's such a shame, Jonathan. I thought he'd been doing much better recently. He seemed more like his old self.”

Jonathan shrugged. He didn't really know what his dad's “old self” was like. Alain had been distant and remote with his son for as long as he could remember. But then, Jonathan knew that Mrs Elwood had known his dad for a long time, long enough to remain his friend after everyone else had gone away. Maybe he had been different back then.

She was right about one thing, though. It had been a while since his dad had fallen ill. Everyone had different names for what happened: neighbours described them as
turns
or
episodes
; doctors used a variety of incredibly long and complex medical terms to hide the fact they didn't know what was going on; the kids in his school simply said he'd gone nuts. Jonathan preferred to use the word his dad had whispered in his ear once, in a rare moment of clarity.
The darkening, son. I can feel the darkening
. . .

The cars in front of them slowly began to move away. Mrs Elwood patted Jonathan on the arm again and smiled. “It'll be all right, you know. Do you want the radio on?”

Jonathan nodded, and they didn't say another word to each other until they reached the hospital.

Like a medieval monastery, St Christopher's Hospital sheltered from the outside world behind a high wall in an area towards the west of the city, near Hyde Park. It was a place for the long-term ill and the mentally disturbed: there was no Accident & Emergency ward here. Although the narrow corridors smelled of disinfectant just like every other hospital, the place was infused with a different, otherworldly atmosphere. Jonathan felt it as soon as the car passed under the arches and into the car park: a pervasive air of hopelessness.

Evening was rapidly descending upon them, and as Jonathan got out of the car he felt a couple of raindrops patter on to his head. He headed through the automatic doors and into the hospital. There was no general reception area, and no one in view, but Jonathan immediately began striding down the nearest corridor. A left turn, and then a right . . . he passed under a flickering strip light and skirted round a cleaner polishing the floor. Behind him, Mrs Elwood was trotting furiously in an attempt to keep up.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” she panted. “We've gone awfully far.”

“I'm sure,” he said softly, without turning round.

“Of course. I'm sorry. But can we at least slow down a bit? My legs are a
teensy
bit shorter than yours.”

For the first time that day, Jonathan smiled. “Yeah. We can do that.”

There was a heavy door at the end of the corridor, and suddenly they were outside again. They had come out on to a small courtyard, where benches clustered around an ornate wooden shelter. Thick green plants were dotted around in ceramic pots. Jonathan guessed that visitors were supposed to relax out here, but you could never escape the fact that you were in a hospital. Orderlies wheeled trolleys back and forth, their wheels rattling on the uneven surface, and in front of him a pair of surgical gloves lay discarded on the ground.

In the corner of the courtyard there was a loading bay marked with yellow lines on the tarmac, and beyond, hidden from sight of the courtyard, there was a small, grimy wing of the hospital. The crumbling Victorian brickwork was coated with soot and grime, and the rows of windows were all barred. Water dripped down from the guttering, forming a small pool near the doorway. It had been over a year since Jonathan had last laid eyes on the wing where his dad now lay.

Mrs Elwood watched Jonathan thoughtfully. “I'd forgotten how ugly it was,” she said.

“I wish I had.”

“Do you want me to go first?”

He nodded.

She went over to the door and pushed it open. Inside they had made an effort to modernize the reception area: there were plastic chairs and water coolers and a glass screen for the front desk. But a dingy atmosphere remained. There were three people sat waiting, flicking silently through magazines. None of them looked up as Mrs Elwood marched up to the reception desk and spoke to the nurse.

“Hello. We're here to see Alain Starling.”

The nurse pursed her lips and consulted her clipboard. “Yes . . . I'm afraid we're not allowing any visitors into this wing at the moment. There have been some . . . disturbances.”

“Are you sure? We've come a long way.”

“I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do.”

The nurse looked up, suddenly spotting Jonathan through the glass. “Oh, it's you.”

“I want to see my dad,” he said.

The nurse paused, weighing up the situation. Eventually she relented. “You can go up, but only for ten minutes. He's in Room Seven.”

The upstairs corridors were even colder and gloomier than the reception. Jonathan passed through a large ward with a domed ceiling. The lights were on, but they were too weak to fill the entire room, and shadows bred in the corners and high up near the roof. Most of the patients lay in their beds, moaning quietly, but some wandered around in stained surgical gowns. A large man with a bristling, uncontrollable beard grabbed Jonathan's arm as he went by and hissed into his ear.

“He comes at night, you know. When no one can see him. When it's
dark
. Last night he took Griffin, but it could have been any of us. You have to help us!”

His eyes welled with tears, and there was a desperate edge to his voice. Jonathan carefully removed himself from his grasp and stepped away. “I'm sorry. I can't help you.”

The man broke into sobs, and began beating himself on the chest. A pair of orderlies ran past Jonathan and tried to restrain him. Jonathan ushered Mrs Elwood away from the struggle and out of the ward. “Poor soul,” she said. “It's dreadful when they lose their minds like that.”

The patients were more vocal in the next ward, and the room rang with shouts and cries. Men stood talking to one another in guttural languages that Jonathan couldn't understand. One banged his fists loudly on the whitewashed walls, while another sat on the edge of bed, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. He looked sharply up as Jonathan walked by – his face was drenched with fear.

Jonathan was relieved when they emerged into a long, quiet corridor. The hospital staff had seen Alain enough times to take him straight to one of the private rooms on the very edge of the hospital. Room Seven was the penultimate room in the corridor. There was a pitiful whimpering noise coming from behind the next door, but Alain's room was silent. Jonathan took a deep breath and went inside.

Room Seven was a cramped space with only the bare minimum of furniture. Light was provided by a small lamp on the bedside table, and there was a musty smell in the air. Alain Starling was stretched out on the bed like a corpse. His skin was white and glistened with sweat. His face was contorted and his mouth wide open. There was a thin line of dribble running down his cheek. He didn't acknowledge his son.

“All right, Dad,” said Jonathan cheerily. Truth be told, the sight of his dad after a darkening had stopped shocking him years ago. There had been a time, when he was younger, when he could barely look at Alain, but he had seen it too many times now.

“Hello, Alain,” ventured Mrs Elwood, a little more nervously.

“So how are doing, Dad?” Jonathan dragged a chair to the bedside. “You don't look too bad. I've seen you worse.” Alain Starling didn't move a muscle. Jonathan wiped the dribble away from his face with his sleeve. “That's a bit minging, though,” he muttered.

“How are you feeling, Alain?” Mrs Elwood asked.

No response. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. It was difficult to be certain that he was even breathing.

“D'you want to hear what's going on with me, then?” Jonathan tried. “Erm . . . what've I been doing? Oh, I got suspended a few weeks ago. They caught me sitting around in Regent's Park when I should have been in school. Sorry about that. I was going to tell you but we hadn't been talking much and there didn't seem to be much point. They said if there was any more trouble they'd throw me out but I don't think they will. It's not like GCSEs are much use, anyway.”

“Now Jonathan,” Mrs Elwood said gently. “You know you shouldn't say those sorts of things. You'll only upset Alain.”

Jonathan didn't respond. It was the most that he had said to his dad for maybe a year or more. At home the two of them generally kept out of each other's way, only occasionally bumping into each other in the kitchen or on the staircase. Jonathan believed that somewhere, deep down, his dad loved him, but he wasn't sure his father had the words to say it. Now, with Alain lying motionless next to him, it was easier to talk.

“So I thought I'd save them the trouble and drop out. Go travelling for a bit. See the world. I can get jobs abroad – you won't have to pay for anything. I think it'd be good for me. What do you think?”

He knew that his dad wasn't going to say anything, but he had to try. Jonathan and Mrs Elwood took it in turns to talk to Alain, searching for something that might trigger a response. After several fruitless minutes the nurse tapped apologetically on the door. “I'm sorry, but you really have to leave now. The patients will be settling down soon.”

They prepared to leave. When Jonathan was sure that Mrs Elwood's back was turned, he briefly touched his dad on the arm, and then hurried out of the room.

As they made their way out of the corridor, a scream erupted from Room Eight.

“I can feel it!” a hollow voice wailed. “
He
is coming for me!”

Jonathan shivered, and headed down the stairs.