Stephen Booth - Scared to Live

When they came to the central stairs, Kotsev gestured upwards, and Cooper nodded. He watched until Georgi reached the top of the first flight, then he moved on.

And it was better on his own, without the distraction of someone else’s footsteps behind him, another person’s breathing in his ear, or that continual jump and flutter on the edge of his vision. Now, he could concentrate on the natural sounds of the building, he could listen for the subtle intrusions into the silence, the surreptitious movement in the darkness.

When he felt the floorboards shift and groan under his feet, Cooper knew he was near the wooden steps that led down to the museum at river level. Standing perfectly still, he held his breath and listened. The faint creak of boards came from below him, somewhere near the bottom of the stairs.

The stairs led down to two doors, one opening into the spinning room and the other into the weaving shed. A doubling machine and some of the looms had been running last time he was here. The rattle of their bobbins and leather drive belts had seemed normal background noises then. Without them, the place was much too quiet, the long lines of wooden spindles dead and still, like rows of broken fingers.

His torchlight gleamed on white and pale blue walls, glared off red fire buckets, picked out the rainbow colours of the cotton on the bobbins. The weaving sheds had pitched roofs that were half glass to provide natural light for the weavers. Tonight, though, the glass only reflected his torch beam and the sporadic glint of machinery from the sheds beneath.

Cooper sniffed instinctively. The smell of lubricating oil and leather seemed stronger in the dark. Or perhaps in the silence. He wasn’t sure which made the most difference. His jacket whispered against the wall, every footstep squeaked on the boards. At this level, he could hear a deep rumbling noise, and even feel a faint vibration through the floor. Common sense told him it must be the turbines running. If they ran at night, they were probably supplying surplus power to the National Grid. But their rumble sounded more like the heart of the massive building, thudding through the walls of the mill, beating much too fast.

Cooper felt his own heart begin to thump faster in rhythm with the turbines, and his chest tightened with anxiety. It was as if he was picking up a sense of fear from the building itself. Be careful . Aren’t I always? Actually, no .

He froze to the spot, suddenly reluctant to go any further into the weaving shed. He didn’t know what he was afraid of. But that was always the most frightening thing, the unknown. You can onlyfear something that hasn’t happened yet . Damn right, Doctor. But lots of things had happened already. How many people had died? Too many to count.

For a moment, the rows of looms blurred and distorted. They seemed to change shape, mutating into crouching, angular beasts that lined a tunnel stretching away from him. They beckoned him further into the darkness, whispering with leathery tongues that had formed from their drive belts and pulleys.

Cooper shook his head, trying to drive away the illusion, to deny the lies that his senses were telling him. Then, at the far end of the weaving shed, he saw what his attention was being drawn to. His unsteady torchlight had picked out a shape on the floor. A bundle of rags, a pile of sacking? Well, it was possible in this place. Anything was possible. But Cooper knew it wasn’t a bundle of rags, or a pile of sacking, or even a trick of the light. It was a body.

‘Oh, shit.’

He recognized the smell of blood. This must have been the trigger for his anxiety, the message that his senses had been sending him. Blood meant danger. Be careful .

Suddenly, his surroundings came back into normal focus, and his feet began to move him forward again. Cautiously, Cooper edged around the looms and the other machines, checking the darkest corners of the shed, until he was bending over the body and feeling for a pulse. Despite the amount of blood matting the hair and spreading across the concrete floor, there were still signs of life.

There had been silence from his ear piece for several minutes now, and Cooper knew he’d lost contact. He pulled out his mobile, praying there’d be a signal. It wasn’t guaranteed, especially since he was below road level. But he was in luck for once. First he called for an ambulance, then he rang Fry’s number.

‘Diane, I’ve found Brian Mullen.’

‘Thank God. Is the child all right?’

‘No, listen. I said I’ve found Mullen. He’s unconscious — he looks as though he’s taken a bad blow to the head, and there’s quite a bit of blood. But he’s breathing all right. I’ve got an ambulance on its way.’

‘And Luanne?’

Cooper didn’t answer for a moment. He was staring at the long rows of looms, the gleaming wooden bobbins. White walls and dusty shelves, the flash of his Maglite reflected and multiplied like stars in the glass roof of the weaving shed. And, almost too far away, a distant doorway that must lead out of the mill to the goyt, where the deep channels drew water from the river.

‘Ben, are you there? What about the child?’

‘There’s no sign of her, Diane. She’s gone.’

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. Silence, apart from the distant sound of a car engine and faint, echoing voices. He pictured Fry still in the parking levels, struggling to cope with members of the public wanting to remove their cars.

‘OK, Ben, hang on there. Stay with Mullen until assistance comes. Is Georgi with you?’

‘I think he’s still upstairs. But, Diane — ’

‘Just don’t do anything stupid.’

And then she was gone. Cooper sighed as he ended the call, and checked Brian Mullen’s pulse and breathing again. His skin felt very cold, so Cooper covered him with a bolt of cloth. There wasn’t much he could do to stop the bleeding, but scalp wounds always looked worse than they really were.

He knew he ought to wait with Mullen, just as Diane said. But he was too conscious of time ticking away, too painfully aware that he might have been able to save John Lowther’s life yesterday, if he’d acted more quickly. How could he sit here now and wait while a small girl was nearby, needing his help? Luanne Mullen might at this moment be at risk in the darkness. The thought was intolerable. He knew he’d never be able to live with himself if he did nothing.

Goading himself into action, Cooper ran back to the stairs to shout for Georgi Kotsev, at the expense of destroying the silence in the mill. He was saved the trouble when Kotsev appeared at the top of the wooden steps, looking huge framed in Cooper’s torchlight.

‘A problem, Ben?’

‘Come down, Georgi, will you?’

Kotsev cursed quietly when he saw the body. ‘And the child?’

‘She’s not here.’

‘ Dyavol da go vzeme .’

‘Stay with him, will you, Georgi? Help is on the way.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To find the child.’

They looked at each other for a moment. Kotsev seemed about to say something, but changed his mind. He nodded briefly.

‘I understand.’

Then Cooper left him with Brian Mullen, and hurried down to the far end of the shed, tracking the sound of a closing door somewhere ahead. Noises echoed so much inside the mill that it was impossible to move around quietly. But it wasn’t quite so easy to tell what direction the noise came from.

He had no idea of the layout at this end of the mill. Above Cooper’s head, a bridge crossed over the looms to the mill entrance at road level. Ahead of him, a cavernous space gradually revealed itself to be the boiler house. Four black, riveted monsters glinted in his torch beam. Strangely, their upper surfaces were being used to store rabbit hutches.