The Faceless (28 page)

Not real. She shouldn’t have come here. She hadn’t taken drugs in over a decade, but was this some sort of flashback? Or worse: was her sanity going, after all? They could always lock her up in one of these rooms. She almost laughed. Mustn’t. For a moment she was back in Roydtwistle. She’d had a small room there, with a window, a door, off a corridor like this. Oh god, she should not have come; the place was coming alive around her. Her mind was all she had, and it would be so easy to lose it here.

“Jesus,” said Stakowski. A heavy iron door stood ajar; inside the walls were padded, like mattresses had been stuck to them, the door too except for a little gap for a spyhole. “An honest-to-god padded cell.”

“Restraint room for violent cases,” she said. “There were four on each level here.”

“Four?”

“Some of the patients were seriously disturbed.”

Like you, Anna?
And she felt the shift coming. So easily done, the flick of a finger on Ash Fell’s part.
You’re so easy, Anna. I can flip you in a heartbeat, at a whim. You belong to me
. The dirt and shadows on the walls shifted from black to red; blood, and a clump of matted hair. Even with the padding, someone had injured himself. There was shit smeared on the floor too and something squatting in the corner in a torn straitjacket, gaunt face bleeding where its own nails had raked it, its lips curled back from brown and yellow teeth, eyes wide and bulbously staring. It was trembling. Fright? No, not fright; fury. The first figure had seen only the past; this one saw the present, but only through the prism of its rage. Suddenly it went still. Blinked once. Its head swivelled, a gun coming to bear, until those pale eyes found her.

Silence fell. Stillness; a wait that seemed endless. And then it straightened its shit-streaked legs, pushing itself up the wall to stand, eyes never leaving hers. It shuffled across the cell to the doorway – would no-one stop it, no-one help? Its clenched teeth looked like yellowed bone in a bloodless, unhealed wound; it stared at her with killing hatred, trembling as if bitterly cold. Everything else seemed to fall away; there was only this thing and its eyes.

And then it looked down, at the straitjacket sleeves across its chest, and its arms slowly slid apart, unfurling from its chest, bloodied hands emerging from the unfastened sleeves, the nails sharp. It looked up at her again. The hatred in its glare was undiminished, but the white-lipped snarl gave way to a distorted smile before it lunged for her with a soundless screech–

She yelped, recoiled, and its substance flew apart, scattering in the dim light that fell through the barred window high above, and the red stains on the padded walls were just the black of old dirt.

“Ms Mason?” Stakowski, frowning.

“Anna? You OK?” Vera was at her side, a hand on her arm. It felt like a tiny shock, her touch. Forget about that. Now wasn’t the time. Martyn coming over as well; she waved him back. All eyes on her. Her face burned.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. Act normal. Don’t let them know you’re crazy. Maintain control at all costs. “Thought I saw something.”
Smile
. “This place. Sorry.”

“I can relate to that,” said Vera.

“Me too,” said Stakowski. “You need to get out?”

“No. No. We won’t be here much longer, will we?”

“Just to search the rest of it. But there’s still the Warbeck.”

“I can handle that. It’s just this place.” Her face still burned. This place disturbed them all, but she was the one who’d admitted it.

Mary. Focus. Keep going. Do what has to be done. Whatever it takes
.

“OK, if you’re sure.”

She nodded.

“Let’s crack on,” Renwick said.

Vera squeezed Anna’s hand. Anna squeezed back. A thin smile touched Vera’s mouth.

“Come on, Vera,” Allen said. “We’ve work to do.”

Vera rolled her eyes, let Anna go. They moved away.
Probably best. Need to focus
.

“Sure you’re alright, lass?” Stakowski had come to her side.

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

Martyn fell into step beside her, not speaking. Cowell had looked almost jealous. Did he know about her and Vera? Stupid.
What
her and Vera? Nothing had happened.
Almost
didn’t count. Did it? But what was it to him anyway? Maybe he was used to having all big sis’ attention.

Or perhaps he just wanted to get this done. Maybe what she’d just seen was a glimpse of the world he saw.

“No sign of anyone, ma’am,” Skelton said.

Renwick nodded. “OK. Let’s check out the canteen.”

Following the others down the staircase, Anna glanced out of the barred window over the lawn. The grass was a tangle of green, with blotches of dead-brown scattered across it, all the way out to the woods. Dead-brown; khaki, almost.

The blotches shifted and stood up. Some leant on crutches or lolled in wheelchairs. Others had stumps for limbs – some with prostheses strapped to them, some not. Others lacked jaws, noses, ears, eyes. She saw a face where the skin had been drawn over the empty eye sockets and stitched shut. Others had no faces at all, just gaping bloodless half-healed holes. They closed in on E Block – some walked, some limped, and the wheelchairs rolled across the lawn with no-one pushing – as the bare trees at the woods’ edge accomplished the shift they’d been threatening and more figures began crowding the lawn – the crippled and disfigured, the vacantly staring, the murderously raging – until they were crammed shoulder to shoulder, staring up at her. At
her
.

“Sis?”

Her eyes stung, blurring – she blinked.

“Sis, you OK?”

The lawns were empty. Tears, warm on her cheeks. She found a tissue, dabbed them.

“Anna?” Martyn said.

She managed a smile, even patted his big, decent, concerned face. “I’m OK. Let’s just get out of here.”

THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL MELVYN STOKES CONCLUDED but i was one of those who came for st john dace o i was still a fighter a thing of terror i homed in on their screams like a bat hunting echoes and i killed killed until master st john shot me it must have been him who else would have had a gun it was nothing personal against master st john he was a good man once but gone soft weak probably yideon doping his drink with opium god knows what capable of anything the eternal jew and he fired into the hole that had been my face finished the job the german shell began all those years ago and nothing changes this place still our prison and outside is the last of england a swamp of niggers darkies jews filthy disgusting queers the race doomed now lost too late to be saved weakened and miscgenated interbred with lesser races god king and country mocked derided sneered at all that remains is a fat bloated decadent remnant now deserving only a quick death to end its misery its mockery of life

O
NE OF THE
canteen windows was smashed, the bars wrenched out; wind and rain blew in, mould and fungus sprouted and instead of dust was a patina of mud, wet dirt that had dried, softened and dried again, layer on layer, one atop the other. In the centre of the canteen, they found what they’d been looking for: the chairs and tables had been pushed aside, and in that empty space someone had drawn the Black Sun.

“Summat’s different here,” Stakowski said. “Nowt in the middle.”

Renwick let out a long breath. “So they’re not done yet. They want someone else. Maybe the others are still OK.”

“Boss–”

“I said
maybe
, Mike.”

“Aye.”

Cowell crouched by the symbol. “Of course. Five blocks around a central building. Like a five-point star; a pentacle. Or like the Black Sun itself.”

Stakowski frowned. “Some kind of a ritual?”

“Oh yes.” Cowell stood up, brushing his trousers and coat. “I’d’ve thought you’d guessed that by now. It’s a ritual, alright. The question is whose.”

“Sh,” said Skelton, looking up. From above came footsteps, descending the stairs.

Stakowski, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, put his hand on his pistol.

“All civilians,” said Skelton, “bunch up. Lads – form up.”

The armed officers moved to encircle Anna and the others.

“Shit,” said Renwick.

Anna turned. Suddenly there were people at the far end of the canteen. They hadn’t been there before. Even in the dim light they were impossible to miss. Some wore stained white smocks; others, army uniform. Some sported missing limbs and faces; some grinned empty grins or stared into other worlds, barely aware. Some stood with bodies bent awry or continually jerking in response to bombardments long ended for everyone but them. And some snarled with perpetual rage, crouching as if to attack.

And in front of them, like a line of police at a demonstration, were the Spindly Men, with their masked faces and black, tattered capes.

Footsteps rang out from the far end of the hall. Anna turned; a similar crowd was forming there.

The devil, and the deep.

After all these years, her nightmares from the psychiatric ward had come, at last, to find her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“O
H GOD,
”
WHISPERED
Vera.

For an instant the years between her and Shackleton Street vanished and she was huddled weeping on the bed, waiting for the next punter to come up the stairs. A victim again; prey. But then the moment passed; she’d never given anything up without a fight in her whole adult life, and she wasn’t fucking starting now. Allen was white-faced, gawping. Vera grabbed his arm, looked for an exit.

Renwick drew her Glock.
Stay calm. Do your job
. Levelled it, two-handed, as the Spindlies closed in.
Pick a target
. The one in the middle, that one. She steadied the gun on him, right between the black-hole eyes in the mask. Stakowski moved to her side, raising his own weapon. The Spindlies came to a halt and stood regarding her and the other cops.

“Form a line!” Skelton snapped. His men fanned out and knelt between the Spindlies and the civilians, shouldering their rifles and carbines. Wayland and Crosbie stepped behind them and aimed their pistols over them; Renwick, Stakowski and Ashraf fell back to join them.

“Mike?”

“Ma’am?”

She didn’t look directly at him, didn’t dare take her eyes off the Spindlies and the lost souls behind them. “Get the civvies out.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not planning on croaking here either. Just get them out. That’s an order, Mike.”

Behind Skelton’s line, Stakowski saw Allen and Vera sidling towards the smashed window. Yes, they could make it that way, if they were fast and if the mob at the other end of the hall didn’t spot them. But the Spindlies seemed to be focused on the coppers. He saw Martyn square his shoulders, clench his fists. Anna pulled his arm, looking from him to the Spindlies to the window. She was white and breathing fast, almost hyperventilating, eyes so wide the whites encircled the irises completely. Stakowski sidled towards them. Slow, careful; don’t attract attention.

Vera dragged Allen to the window, knocked the remaining pieces of glass out of the empty frame. “Climb over. Now.”

He blinked, then nodded and started clambering out.

“Martyn.” It was like trying to shift a statue. Anna knew he wanted to fight them, get Eva back. But they were already dead, the Spindlies and the horde behind them. “Martyn, come
on
.”

“With me.” Stakowski whispered. He had his gun out, pointed at the floor. “That means you, Mr Griffiths.
Move
.”

One of the smock-clad patients turned his grinning head, looked past them at the window. Cowell was outside already, his sister crouched on the sill, half-in and half-out of the killing room. The dead started moving, and Stakowski raised the pistol. Renwick had given him a job; he’d bloody do it. “Behind me,” he hissed, “and keep fucking moving. Don’t make a sound.”

The line of police started backing up. Vera climbed the rest of the way out. Her brother was already legging it across the lawns; she pelted after him. Two down, two to go.

“
Griffiths
,” said Stakowski.

Martyn stood rooted. Anna pulled at his arm. “Martyn.”

“Armed police officers,” Renwick shouted. “You’re all under arrest on suspicion of kidnapping and murder.”

Heads turned to study her. Shit. Now what? The other officers were waiting for orders. “Put your hands on your heads, lie down on the floor, you won’t be harmed.” Oh Christ Christ Christ. Dad. Daddy. Christmas with him and Morwenna, was that so bad? She should’ve rung him last night, before the phones went down.

The Spindlies began moving forward. “Stay where you are.” She shouted it; her finger tightened on the trigger. Careful. You can’t unfire a gun. “Hold still or we will open fire.”

They had no guns that she could see, but they hadn’t needed them to kill Pete Hardacre. Just a few yards between them now.

“This is your last warning,” she shouted.

The Spindly in her sights paused for a moment, cocked his head. Impossible to tell with that mask on, but she thought he looked amused. And then he took another step forward.

“Fire!”

Renwick squeezed the trigger as she gave the command, and a neat little hole appeared in the Spindly Man’s forehead; cracks raced out across the mask, but he didn’t fall. Barely even hesitated, in fact. Just took another step towards her.

There was no fear, or even surprise. It seemed inevitable, somehow. She only blinked when every gun in the canteen went off in a fusillade, deafening. The rifles and carbines fired short, chattering bursts; the muzzle flashes lit the canteen’s dim interior like a strobe. The Spindlies twitched and lurched back; the patients didn’t even seem to register that. ‘Her’ Spindly reached towards her; she fired three rounds in his chest and he tottered backwards, then straightened and came forward again.

“Fall back. Move move move–”

But the screams had already begun. Two of Skelton’s men fell writhing; Skelton stood his ground, firing at first one, then the other of two advancing Spindlies. One lunged, touched his face. The scream that came out of Skelton was higher, shriller, wilder with fright than Renwick would have believed possible. He dropped the gun and clawed at his face before falling, the shriek choking suddenly off. He lay still.