DEATHLOOP (18 page)

Russell’s outburst had been so weird and although Zack had anticipated weirdness before setting off to find Veronica, he hadn’t bargained on anything quite so public or quite so humiliating. Zack had managed to convince Veronica that the whole thing was a case of mistaken identity, obviously Russell had got him mixed up with someone else. But if Russell’s attack on him had something to do with the deaths - and Zack knew instinctively that it had, Zack wondered if he should seek Russell out and ask him what was behind it.

They had made love as soon as they got back into their room, this time Zack taking the lead. It was more basic than last night but just as powerful. They knocked over a bedside table and a lamp in the process and Zack found himself wondering if Mrs Fairweather, alerted by the noise had crept up to eavesdrop on the other side of their door, simultaneously appalled and excited by an activity she had long since abandoned. Sex continued for hours. It was a reaction to something thought Zack, its intensity and their inability to stop. Maybe it was a reaction to all this death.

Finally Veronica’s eyes closed. Zack held her in his arms for a full five minutes before gently extricating himself and climbing up off the bed. He pulled on his still soggy clothes and tiptoed from the room. The house was silent and dark so Zack was careful of his footsteps on the stairs. He crept from the building and set off towards the church.

But Veronica was not asleep, not really, her eyes opened the moment Zack had closed the door.

Outside a storm had bedded itself in. Trees bent double with the force of the wind and rain was whipping and bouncing and flinging itself at the streets in temper. Zack was soaked by the time he got to the chapel. His collar was up, but still rain found its way down the neck of his shirt. Already his trousers were stuck to his legs, his expensive shoes unused to this kind of treatment had given up and leaked water into his socks which were squelching. A display board stood lopsided in the chapel grounds, a couple of notices pinned up under the glass. Zack had to rub away the rain to get any view at all, but he could just make out the name Russell Garrity and a phone number. After one ring he heard Russell’s voice.

“Russell Garrity.”

“It’s me,” said Zack.

“Ah yes,” said Russell, with resignation, “I thought it might be.”

“You know don’t you?” was the only thing Zack could think of saying, “you know what all this is about.”

Russell’s breathing sounded tired, he noted, as though it was being drawn reluctantly through his lungs under sufferance.

“Did you hear me? Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes I heard you.”

“Well?”

“And you don’t? You don’t know what all this is about?”

“No, of course I don’t.”

“So you’re asking me?”

“Yes, I’m asking you.”

“Then be prepared for the answers,” said Russell, quietly, “because you won’t like them.”

Zack made no reply for a moment, scared to pick up the gauntlet that had been thrown down. “Can we meet?” he said finally, “can we talk about this?”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Absolutely…” said Zack, but the word came out like a hesitation. “I’m positive…” he said, and this time he did sound sure.

Then, as though a die had been cast, Russell said: “The bridge over Grey Pike Fell, do you know it?”

“No, but I’ll find it.”

“We need to be over water.”

“Why, what for?”

“It’s safer,” he said.

“Safer?”

“Yes,” said Russell, “safer for me.”

Zack battled against the storm to a small minicab office on the other side of the square. Russell had given him directions although Zack doubted the place would still be open on a night like this. But there was a reluctant light shining from inside the old caravan in the corner of a pub car park, and a handmade sign which read Moonlighting Mini Cabs stuck up with blue tack in its window. Even so, when Zack pushed against the door he was still surprised to find that it opened.

A chubby middle aged Asian man sat behind a high counter, a mute television flickering on the wall up over his head. He was humming ‘My Girl Lollipop’ as Zack walked in.

“Yes?” he said, pleasantly, his Derbyshire accent apparent after only one word.

“Grey Pike Fell?”

“
Now
?” said the man, as though he was in the company of a fool.

“Yes, now.”

“No drivers I’m afraid,” he said with a shrug.

“You can take me can’t you?”

The man looked a little embarrassed at the request. “But I am Raashid Khan, the proprietor, and the controller,” he said, with the pride of a newly qualified brain surgeon.

“But with no drivers to control,” said Zack, “is that it?”

“No, you don’t understand,” said Raashid, speaking clearly and with emphasis, “
there-are-drivers-but-they-are-not-here
.”

“Yes, I get that, so where are they?”

Raashid beamed and threw his arms out wide as if to say ‘your guess is as good as mine’.

“So you take me,” said Zack.

“Unfortunately, my good friend, that is not how we operate at Moonlighting Mini Cabs,” said Raashid with a little chuckle, amused that this man appeared to have so little understanding of private hire protocol.

“Well, guess what, Raashid? Tonight it is.”

As the old Ford saloon sped through town, Zack hunched up on the back seat, Raashid singing along gaily this time to Amy Winehouse and Rehab on the car radio, Zack was beginning to have second thoughts. Here he was, driving across Derbyshire in a storm to meet some loopy old guy and what for exactly… to hear another load of nonsense about past lives, the afterlife and the undead, concepts that until a few days ago, Zack had given no credence to at all. And then he got to thinking that maybe that was the trouble, maybe he’d allowed the germs of belief in and now they were feeding off each other, breeding and proliferating. Maybe if he shut up shop and rejected the whole sorry mess once and for all, whatever it was would just slink away back into the ether, job done.

Raashid had difficulty understanding just where Zack wanted to be dropped off. He said the fell was 3 miles long and two bridges crossed it, but when Zack mentioned a river, he seemed to have a better idea.

“I can’t get you that close,” said Raashid, “it’s still a walk, but I’ll get you as close as I can.”

“Thanks,” said Zack, “I appreciate it.”

Raashid had been a mini cab driver for years before setting up his own business and had driven all over Derbyshire, often picking up hill walkers who had had enough, or bird watchers needing to get to a particular spot quickly where a rare bird had shown up, but he could not remember at any time delivering a fare in such bad weather to such a remote place in the middle of the night, this had to be a first.

He had wanted to ask Zack straight out, right from the moment he pushed those twenty pound notes into his hand, but he didn’t seem the sort who would welcome questions somehow, so Raashid respected his privacy. But when he caught his eye in the rear view mirror and his curiosity getting the better of him, he decided to give it a go.

“You’re not thinking of walking down to Skellfield Dyke are you?” asked Raashid, cheerily.

“No, no I’m not,” said Zack.

“Quite right too, don’t you know,” said Raashid, now sounding like a character from PG Wodehouse,
“in these adverse weather conditions, it would be tempting providence!
” Raashid chuckled, and allowed Zack a few moments to reply, but Zack didn’t reply, so Raashid continued. “Have you ever seen anything like this,” he said, with a grin, “the month of June as well… but it’s our own fault of course, incurring the wrath of Allah with our test tube beef burgers, British Gas emissions, agricultural fertiliser and Branson’s supersonic space ships, and unfortunately for all concerned in these matters, our destiny is in the hands of
fools… despots and fools!
”

Raashid shook his head from side to side making clucking noises with his tongue.

“Talking of which…
talking of which,
” said Raashid, bashing the steering wheel with his hands, eyes popping, “
the Rams! Blimey oh riley!
” he exclaimed, “
don’t start me off!
”

But Raashid needed no encouragement to tell Zack all about his favourite football club, the difficulties they were experiencing with the ground, the manager, the players, the people who sold the programmes, and the price they charged for a cup of tea.

“Greed has done for football,” said Raashid, sadly, “like a many jewelled dagger through the heart, but what can we do in this mixed economy of ours, survival of the fittest is the preoccupation of our capitalist classes and no mistake.”

Raashid had got into his stride now and within the fifteen minutes it took them to reach Grey Pike Fell he covered quite a lot of ground: his membership of The Caravan Club, the returns policy at Argos, his continuing disappointment with the James Bond franchise, George’s kebab shop which had undergone major refurbishment recently, and not before time according to Raashid, but Zack was not really listening. He was gazing out of the window at the dark, dank landscape beyond, nervous now as the journey was about to come to an end.

Raashid finally pulled into a lay-by and dimmed his lights. He turned to Zack with a grin as rain clog danced on the roof of the car. “Here we are!” said Raashid with a flourish, “Grey Pike Fell. The pathway is through that gate, it goes right down to the river, turn left along the bank then about a quarter of a mile or so you’ll see some steps to the bridge, but be careful, the river has already broken its banks so the path will be treacherous in places… in fact, my advice to anyone in your situation would be this:
do not under any circumstance throw caution to the wind!”

Raashid offered his hand which Zack shook. He liked this guy who had agreed to waive his much trumpeted position as proprietor and controller for half an hour or so and to deliver him into the wilds of Derbyshire with no questions asked.

“You want me to wait?” asked Raashid, sticking his head out of the window, just as he was about to drive away.

“No, you get back,” said Zack, “thanks, mate, I appreciate it.”

The Ford did a noisy three point turn, and as Raashid screeched off back onto the road, he sounded his horn a couple of times and then he was gone. With the sounds of Raashid’s engine fading, Zack turned to the open gate, flinging itself back and forth in the wind and began his descent towards the river.

All pretence of his clothes offering protection from the weather had now gone, if anything they were a hindrance. The weight of wet denim rubbed against his groin and the backs of his shoes were wearing the skin from his heels. Why on earth this venue? This was complete madness. The river had risen to such an extent that the wide paths on either side of it were flooded, so Zack had to walk right up against the foot of the hills, sometimes struggling up the sodden grass and mud to avoid the swell of the rapids, making progress slow.

Eventually, in the distance up ahead he saw a narrow wooden foot bridge straddled across the surging maelstrom beneath, and swaying precariously like a hammock. Even from here he could see that its hand rail was broken in a couple of places, and it was littered with broken branches from overhanging trees that tossed and pitched in the storm. In the middle of the bridge looking towards him he saw Russell, the whiteness of his face a guiding moon in the darkness.

When Zack reached the narrow, steep stone steps that led up the hillside he started to climb them, the weight of his sodden clothes making his legs heavy. He scrambled up, crawled up really, until he was standing cautiously on the hillside wiping his muddy hands on his clothes, brushing rain from his eyes. There were signs forbidding people to use the bridge and Zack could quite understand why.

“
Are you sure this thing’s safe!
” said Zack, lobbing his voice into the gale that was threatening at any minute to scoop the two of them up and fling them down into the river and be done with it. Russell just stared as though he hadn’t heard the question, so Zack stepped gingerly onto the bridge feeling its sway beneath his feet, clutching at the broken rail that straight away gave at his touch. A few feet away from Russell, Zack stopped.

“Why the endurance test? And why here of all places?” said Zack, rain cascading down his face and hardly able to concentrate in these conditions.

“A precaution, that’s all…”

“Look, I’m sure you believe absolutely in all this, whatever it is, but I’m… well, how can I put it?”

“A nonbeliever?” ventured Russell.

“A nonbeliever, yes, that’s about it.”

“It doesn’t matter because the outcome will be the same. But you had a question you said, let’s start with that.”

“Strangers keep dying right in front of me, they call out my name and ask me to help them, three times now, three strangers.”

“And your question is?”

“Why it’s happening of course and how the hell do I get it to stop,” said Zack, surprised to be asked.

“You can’t.”

“What?”

“You can’t get it to stop, not in this lifetime.”

Zack wanted to hit him. “Are you crazy? Of course I can get it to stop.”

“Then go right ahead, you asked for my help but it seems you don’t need it.”

As Russell turned to walk away, Zack lunged forward and pulled him back. “I do, I do need it, I’m sorry…”

Russell gazed at Zack, hopelessly. He knew this man was desperate for a clean logical explanation but it didn’t work like that, and Russell also knew that as much as he tried to get Zack Fortune to accept this, he would not be able to accept it because he was not the accepting type.

“You’ve tried to regress to another life am I correct?”

“Well, maybe, yes…” said Zack, hugely embarrassed to have to admit to this.

“We forget our previous lives and deaths and that’s how it should be, sneaking glimpses as you have done is dangerous.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” said Zack, realising how pathetic this sounded, like a child blaming someone else.