The Mall (17 page)

She smiles at me brightly again, eyes still sinisterly vacant. ‘A phone?’

‘Yes. I need to call the police. There’s been—’

‘I can Oversize your order if you like!’

This is insane. I take a deep breath. ‘Can you
please
just tell me where the exit is?’

She starts scratching at her head, and the paper cap she’s wearing slips drunkenly over one eye. Her hair is shaved over her ear and a thick, barely healed scar snakes up from the back of
her neck and around the top of her ear. Car accident?

Believe that if you want to
.

‘Sorry ma’am, could you repeat the request?’ she says.

‘The exit. How do I get the fu… how do I get out of here?’

‘Out?’

It takes all my strength to resist punching her in the face.

Calm down
.
Try again
.

‘What time does this place open?’

‘It is open, ma’am.’

‘How do customers get here from the mall?’

‘Can you repeat your request, ma’am?’

I slam my palm on the counter, and she jumps slightly. ‘For fuck’s sake! Where’s the fucking exit?’

‘Exit?’

‘What are you, a fucking echo?’

The girl taps the name badge attached to her shirt. There’s a bloody fingerprint on it. ‘I’m Tracy.’

But the name badge reads: ‘Doug’.

‘Forget it.’

‘Okay!’

She grins blankly and disappears behind the counter again.

Fuck.

Now what?

Back to the parking lot
.

‘No way,’ I mutter under my breath.

You’d easily make it to the other side
.

There’s no way I’m doing that. Then something strikes me. Maybe there’s an exit in one of the cinemas? Of course! A fire exit. There must be, surely?

Don’t be so sure
.

Ignoring the voice of doom, I head back towards the pillars. But as I approach, the double doors leading into the theatres start to edge open. I slip in behind the
Cinderella
display. There’s a small cut-out space between the figures, and I have a perfect view.

Someone’s emerging. It’s a guy, way too skinny, dressed in filthy rags and with matted, ropy blonde dreadlocks that fall halfway down his back. He looks nervously around him, and creeps towards the large rubbish bin just outside the doors. He rummages in it, pulls out a cardboard container and a giantsized slush cup, and shoves them into the plastic bag he’s carrying. He’s mumbling to himself and keeps darting his head around like an animal continually checking for predators. Unlike the robotic retard behind the refreshment counter he looks… alive. And judging from his wide eyes and trembling hands he’s scared. The expression on his face mirrors exactly how I’m feeling. Bizarrely, this is reassuring.

I step out from behind the display.

‘Hi!’ I say, not knowing what else to start with. ‘Can you help me?’

He looks up and our eyes lock. His mouth falls open, and I’m treated to the sight of mossy teeth. Tucking the plastic bag’s handles into his belt, he slips back through the doors. They close behind him with a crump.

Should I follow?

No!

Ignoring the voice, I stalk towards the rope. Something clamps around my wrist, and swallowing the scream, I jump, whirl round and try and pull myself free. There’s an old woman on her hands and knees next to me, gnarled fingers digging into my wrist.

‘What the fuck? Let go!’

She looks up at me and grins, showing off a set of wooden teeth. ‘Ticket please, dear!’

Fuck me. ‘What?’

‘Ticket please, dear!’

I try and pull out of her grip, but she’s strong. Using my free hand, I grab her index finger and yank it back sharply, and she finally loosens her grasp. I must have hurt her quite badly, but she doesn’t show any signs of pain. And holy shit… there’s a metal cuff attached to her ankle, a chain leading from it to one of the pillars. How come I didn’t see her
before?

Probably curled up like the popcorn girl. Waiting for a customer.

The woman absentmindedly shakes her injured hand.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

‘Me? I’m fine dear. Just perfect.’ Her eyes are as vacant as the popcorn girl’s. Maybe more so. Like the eyes on those mannequins that Dan and I had to climb over in the
tunnels. ‘Can I please see your ticket?’

‘I don’t have a ticket.’

‘You can’t go past the red ropes without a ticket, dear,’ she says. ‘Unless you are a Shopper, of course. Are you?’

What the fuck is she talking about? ‘Please! I have to—’

‘The ticket seller will happily sell you a ticket, dear.’

‘I don’t have any money.’

‘Ticket, please!’

‘I don’t have a fucking ticket!’

Something flickers in her eyes – some sign of life – then, almost immediately, it dwindles again.

‘What’s going on here? Why are you chained up?’

‘Chained, dear?’

Now I’m sure her expression just shifted. ‘Help me!’ I say to her. ‘Please! I have to get out of here.’

‘Ticket, please!’

Rhoda, let’s just go. Let’s go back to the car park. Take our chances. Get back to the phone shop. This situation is fucked.

I try pleading with the woman again. ‘I really need some help.’

‘May I see your ticket?’

That’s it. I’ve had enough. The anger is starting to build and I welcome it. I’ve been scared for so long now that any other emotion is a relief. I step forward, and she
scuttles in front of me, moving alarmingly quickly on her hands and knees.

Rhoda! Don’t do anything stupid!

I stare straight at her. ‘Okay. Now listen to me very closely, you fucked-up bitch. Are you going to let me pass, or am I going to have to fight my way through you?’

There’s a part of me, a nasty cold part, that would relish this. I dig my hands in my pocket, fingers curling over the knife’s handle.

Beating up old ladies, very nice
.

The woman looks at me blankly, and then suddenly her mouth twists into a vicious snarl. I back away – I can’t help it – but she doesn’t approach.

That’s it. Come on. Back to the parking lot. She’s mad. Don’t take any chances.

My phone beeps. Keeping the old woman in my sights, I quickly scan the message.

What is this shit? I step forward again.

‘Are you going to let me pass? Last chance.’

The animal grimace is now gone from her face. She glances at the phone and nods. ‘Of course. Go ahead, dear. Enjoy your movie.’

Holding my breath, I walk past her and climb over the red rope.

No! Go back!

‘You won’t like what you find,’ the old woman says from behind me, her voice as flat and dead as her eyes.

‘That’ll make a fucking change, then.’ I spit the words out.

If you do this, you’re on your own
.

‘Good.’

I head towards the black doors, and, without looking back, push my way through and into a darkened corridor, lined with double doors.

I wait for the voice in my head to protest.

It doesn’t. It’s gone.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

I head down the corridor, pushing against each door as I go. Each one is flanked by more of those warped movie posters. I pass an insanely grinning Sandra Bullock in
Schmaltz
, a smug
Morgan Freeman in
Token Black President
and an ashen-faced Robert Pattinson in
Borderline Stalker
, but all of the doors seem to be locked. I can make out the faint traces of various
movie soundtracks floating out from behind them: a scream here, an explosion there, a burst of canned laughter from behind another. There’s only one left to try at the end of the corridor.
Last chance. I push it tentatively, and it gives.

Thank Christ.

I’m hit with a blast of jaunty old-fashioned cartoon music, and it takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I’m in a small, intimate cinema, and I can make out
the shadowy shapes of several rows of seats, but not much else. Doing my best to navigate by the light of the screen, I creep down the aisle along the wall, peering into the rows of empty chairs.
There’s no sign of the dreadlocked guy anywhere, and there’s definitely no reassuring green glint of an emergency-exit sign. There are several metres of carpeted space in front of the
screen, but no side doors, or even a middle aisle. Fuck. The voice was right.

I head to the front row. Where could Dreads have gone, though? Could he be hiding on the floor? I get down on my hands and knees and peer under the seats. I can’t see much in the darkness,
just the blackened shapes of empty popcorn cartons, spilled soft drinks and balled-up tissues, but there’s definitely no sign of a person.

‘Hello?’ I have to shout over the soundtrack.

Nothing.

‘Hello! Anyone here?’

I’m alone.

Fuck it. I slump down on one of the seats in the front row, and stare at the screen.

The film’s familiar. A baby deer scampers into shot, gambolling through autumn leaves with a rabbit.
Bambi
. I remember going to see it years ago with Dad, and I’m suddenly hit
with homesickness so acute that it makes me gasp out loud. My chest hitches, and my eyes start filling with tears. If I snap now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull myself together, and
I concentrate on the animals on screen in an attempt to get myself under control. I don’t remember them being quite so realistically rendered. The rabbit – Thumper – doesn’t
seem to have that cheeky glint in his eye, and his fur looks matted and covered in burrs and dirt. And none of the cartoon characters are talking. They don’t seem to be doing much of anything
at all: basically just foraging around in the cartoon forest, nibbling at leaves. It’s actually quite relaxing watching them. Soothing, almost.

My eyes are getting heavy. I know I shouldn’t. Stupid to fall asleep. Insane to put myself at such a disadvantage. But fuck it. What’s the worst that can happen?

I mean, how could things possibly get any worse?

The screams jolt me awake.

I leap up out of the chair, heart thudding, and almost trip over my feet in my haste to get away. Then it dawns that the screams are blasting out of the speakers – part of the
movie’s soundtrack. And the scream isn’t human. It’s the sound of an animal in terrible pain.

On screen, Bambi’s mother is in the process of being gutted, faceless hunters with gruff voices slicing into her side with curved hunting knives, unpeeling her skin and pulling out her
intestines. The fact that the scene is animated somehow makes the gore and horror even more visceral and revolting. Christ. I sink back in my chair. On screen the little fawn limps away and
collapses under a bush. There’s a shot of autumnal leaves blowing from branches, signifying the passing of the seasons, and snowflakes drift down, falling onto Bambi’s body. He stares
glassily into shot. His ribs stick out and it’s pretty clear that he’s in the process of freezing to death.

I can’t watch this any more. This place, this world, this reality – whatever the fuck it is – is twisted. Seriously twisted. Sick. I’ll have to do what the schizoid voice
suggested, head back into the parking lot, and make a run for it to the other door. Find Dan; warn him that we’re in some serious shit here.

Oh, fuck.

The soundtrack’s way too loud, the orchestra blaring out sad Bambi’s-about-to-die-music, but I’m pretty sure I just heard the sound of popcorn crunching behind me.

I keep as still as I can, barely daring to breathe.

Then I hear it again. The unmistakeable crackle as someone chomps down on a mouthful of popcorn.

I really, really don’t want to turn around.

But I have no choice.

I get to my feet and slowly turn to face the back of the cinema. There’s the silhouetted shape of someone (some
thing
) three rows away from me. I can’t make out its facial
features, but there’s something wrong with its head. It looks too large for its body: a bulbous, inhuman shape, stuck onto a too-thin neck. The thing’s silhouette looks horribly like
the sign on that toilet door in the Barbie-pink bathroom.

Without taking my eyes from it I back away, stumbling as the floor slopes downwards, until my back’s against the screen. I catch a blur of movement to my right. The carpet is shifting
upwards, and a square panel cut into the floor lifts up and drops down with a clunk, revealing a dark fathomless hole. A hand appears, followed by a head. In the flickering light of the screen I
can make out a shock of filthy dreadlocks. Our eyes meet, and he frantically waves at me to approach.

Fuck! What to do?

My phone beeps. Numbly, automatically, I fumble in my pocket and pull it out.

The message reads:

The thing with the bulbous, misshapen head gets to its feet and starts edging along the row towards the aisle. The soundtrack swells to a crescendo. The hobo guy extends his hand towards me.

Fuck it.

I reach down and take it.

chapter 16

DANIEL

There’s a limp bang like a wet firework behind me and the window of the travel shop next to me shears into a spider web. Holy shit, this guy isn’t fucking
around.

I sprint to Entrance 1, turning a corner at every opportunity so that the Admiral can’t get a straight shot at me. Motherfucker. I’m being
shot
at!

Come on! Entrance 1 is still blocked. They must have forgotten to lift the security gate because all the shops are open and the lockdown’s plainly over. Shit. I’d better try Entrance
7. I look over my shoulder, and the Admiral’s just rounding the last corner. Though he looks like he’s about to keel over any minute, he’s managing to keep up. He stops to tamp
and load his pistol with another ball and that gives me time to race down another sideaisle.

I’m nowhere near Entrance 7 and somehow the Admiral has managed to gain on me. I may not make it in time, and what if it’s locked? I duck into an ATM cubby, shielding myself behind
the bank machine’s smoked-glass barrier, and look around to orient myself.