Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

Kallie returned to the bathroom and noticed that the stain on the wall had spread during the few minutes she had been out of the room. Now it extended fully halfway up the wall in a suppurating mushroom cloud, and was wet to the touch.

She was about to resume work with renewed vigour when the lights went out.

‘I really thought I had him,’ said Bimsley. ‘I might have done if I hadn’t gone arse over tit on the kerb. It’s these shoes. I’ve done my coccyx in, and the back of my jacket’s soaked.’ The detective constable wiped his eyes and pulled his baseball cap closer to his head. ‘I can’t believe this weather,’ he complained. ‘Global warming. We’re getting pissed on night and day just so mums can drop their kids off in SUVs. You all right?’

‘I’ve been drier,’ Meera agreed, squinting up at her colleague.

‘It’s going to be dark soon. Sunday evening, we should be home. I want some soup. Tate’s not going to turn up here again. Whatever he’s up to, he knows we’re on to him. Something’s tipped him off.’

‘How could it?’

‘Suppose he went back to the hostel for his books and found them gone. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out who took them. He’s scarpered.’

Meera checked her wrist. ‘We’re not off duty for another hour.’

‘My watch has steamed over. Besides, the Old Man reckons nobody goes home until we’ve got him.’ People often thought of Bryant as the Old Man, even though he was only three years older than his partner.

‘We could do another door-to-door.’

‘That’d go down well, wouldn’t it? Any more interviews and it’ll constitute harassment,’ warned Bimsley. ‘Civvies either complain that they can never see police on the streets, or moan about being picked on.’

‘Don’t start, Colin, you’re starting to sound like the Peckham South boys. Let’s just get through the shift.’

Bimsley stamped and splashed. ‘He’s not going to show tonight.’

‘Why not?’

‘The rain. It’s not going down the drains any more, which means his precious underground tunnels must be flooded, which means Tate can’t use them to get around.’ Bimsley narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the caul of mist. ‘Something’s really wrong here. I can feel it. There’s a disturbance in the force.’ He mimed wielding a light sabre. ‘I mean, what’s he going to gain by faking his own death? He already had a way of disappearing. Why didn’t he use it when he still had the chance?’

‘In south London you get three deaths in the same street, nobody tries to link them together. He’s just a tramp, he’s not a murderer.’

‘He killed one of his own, Meera. I’ve seen people like him before. There’s a solid wall between his type and us, people with homes. Why would he let one of his own kind die? There’s something missing that the Old Man hasn’t put his finger on, and he’s into extra time. I should worry, I’m off home as soon as I get the signal. Dry out, order a curry, open a beer, bung on the telly, thank you and good night.’

‘I thought we were a team, Colin. You wouldn’t leave poor old Bryant and May out here on their own, would you?’ asked Meera.

‘What’s it worth?’

‘I might join you for the curry.’

In the distance, thunder scraped and tumbled with the obliterating force of the rising storm.

‘Can’t you put the de-mister on?’ asked May. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

‘I could, but it’ll burn out the contacts on my brake lights. If you turn the radio on, the interior light comes on.’

‘There’s something very strange about the wiring of your car.’ May fidgeted in his seat. ‘I’m sure these are stuffed with horsehair. You should get yourself a nice little runaround.’

‘It wouldn’t be much good in a high-speed pursuit, would it?’ snapped Bryant.

Dear God, let’s never have another of those, thought May, remembering the last time. ‘This is a Mini Cooper.’

‘Not under the bonnet, it’s not.’

‘It’s nearly dark. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

‘No,’ said Bryant, digging in his paper bag for a cola cube. ‘It happens every night.’

‘I mean there are no street lights on. No interior lights in any of the houses, either. Look, over there, you can see them in Inkerman Road. Maybe the water’s got into a sub-station. I’d better call it in.’

‘Where’s Longbright?’

‘Janice should still be in number 43, with the Wiltons. I can’t see Meera or Colin. I told them to stay within sight.’ May reached over to the back seat for a baseball cap.

‘Must you wear that awful thing?’ Bryant complained. ‘It’s intended for someone a quarter of your age.’

‘I don’t know why you have this High Tory attitude to fashion.’ May straightened the peak in his mirror. ‘You’re not exactly Calvin Klein.’

‘I’ve had my trilby since the War.’

‘I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen over your ears, considering the way you’re shrinking. Where is it, anyway?’

‘I think I left it at Peregrine’s, along with my stick and my gloves.’

‘I’m going to tie them to your jacket one day. Keep your mobile handy in case anything’s wrong. You do have that, don’t you?’

‘Naturally.’ Bryant dug into his coat and was amazed to find his own Nokia there; he had begun to suspect it had fallen under the exposed floorboards at the unit.

‘Is it on? Of course not.’ May turned it on and threw it back. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ He climbed out into the downpour.

Kallie found a torch and some candles under the sink. Illuminated by pale spheres of radiance, the house appeared to be returning to its Victorian origins. There was something graceful about being able to carry the light from one room to another, bringing each space into focus as she passed through.

The twilit garden was now brighter than the interior of the house. The glow of the city was reflected on low racing clouds. As she stood framed by the window, she saw that Tate was standing inside the bush once more. She recognized his crippled shape immediately. Shining the torch through the window, she picked up his startled eyes in the light, and panned the beam over his body.

He was holding a carving knife in his right hand.

She flicked off the torch and made her way to the back door, checking that it was bolted top and bottom. The opaque-glass panel above the handle was wide enough for an intruder to smash and put his hand through. She dragged a chair from the kitchen and wedged it against the handle, then ran back to the window, staying low. Tate had moved closer, and was brazenly loping up the garden toward the house. A squall of rain hit the window with the force of a thrown shingle. She had forgotten to set her cordless phone back on its stand, and began searching the kitchen for it.

When she looked back into the wavering darkness, Tate had vanished once more.

Kallie had no intention of running away.

Let the men in the street do that; it was the women who stayed and fought. This was her home, somewhere she finally belonged, and she would stay to protect it. The more logical you were, the less there was to be afraid of. She took stock of her surroundings.

It appeared that only the lights were out. The phone was still working. Forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, she listened for sounds beyond the river under the bathroom and the falling rain. This time, pride kept her from going for help. Tate was distracted and crippled. She was more than a match for him. She could not pretend to understand what might drive a man to act this way, but so many residents of the metropolis had become lost inside themselves that it was no longer a disease afflicting isolated communities; lunacy had spread to the city.