Alex Gray: Never Somewhere Else

As he rose to leave the room he caught the eye of a bearded fellow in the corner. He stopped for a moment in surprise. It was obvious he had not realised the man had been there all the time. He gave a start when the bearded stranger dropped him a conspiratorial wink. Valentine scowled and scuttled out into the corridor.

‘Well, what do you make of that, Dr Brightman?’

Lorimer’s question was a reluctant overture to his visitor. Solly shook his head.

‘I doubt if he is capable of contributing very much. He’ll live in a world of his own with little sense of dates or time. He probably hears all sorts of weird things during the night. For him they won’t be weird, though, just a background noise, like bullfrogs in the tropics.’

Lorimer gathered up his papers.

‘Come through to my office, will you? I’d like to talk about your involvement in the case.’

Solly noticed that Lorimer didn’t meet his eye. It was just as well. He might not have appreciated the huge grin that spread across the psychologist’s face.

*

The thunder rumbles overhead. From his vantage point high above the city the watcher looks out at the sudden flashes. Squares and angles of housing blocks are suddenly lit up, looming large and bright. Darkness again.

The watcher edges nearer to the cold glass. What does he see? Lights of the city twinkling through the gloom. Dark masses of parkland, unshining. The faraway lights are frozen by another flash of lightning, turning black night into sudden shocking day. The watcher recoils from the naked light. Too bright. Too penetrating. He needs to retreat into the safe shell of his room.

Elsewhere in the city other watchers stood, disturbed and fascinated by the electrical storm. Solly had pulled a chair over to his window and now sat by the long, undrawn curtain, gazing at the free light show. It exhilarated him to feel an unleashed power which had nothing to do with humankind. No forethought. No motives. No manipulation. He laughed softly, like a child, when the flashes lit up the landscape. His dark eyes gleamed with delight at every crash. The storm was directly overhead now and some car alarms had begun their persistent shrill in the distance. He would sit until the crashes grew fewer and the pounding rain quietened in the streets.

Solly would have no trouble in slipping into sleep, happy with the interlude of the thunderstorm which had cleansed his mind of all the day’s events and the anticipation of events to come.

Lorimer had pulled aside the green curtain after the first huge crash and flash. Light had penetrated the thin material and created a greenish glow in his room. The white lightning was naked and warm. Lorimer thought about the derelict they had brought in. He, and too many others like him, were out there now at the mercy of the elements. He had a sudden picture of soggy cardboard and heaps of rags illumined by the sheets of lightning. Poor sods, he thought, more in anger than in pity. His rage had no direction. For who was to blame for the plight of the homeless? If, like Valentine Carruthers, you had simply strayed away from the conventions of society then there was no one to blame. These things simply happened. Relationships crumbled, illusions and dreams were shattered and broken humans retreated into the safety of the outside world, sheltering as they could from the power of the elements. Like Poor Tom in King Lear . What was it Shakespeare had called humanity? ‘A poor bare, forked animal’? Somewhere out there Valentine would be crouching like a beast below some bushes. Safe again from other wild animals.

Lorimer thought of the killer. He too was out there somewhere, untamed and powerful, like the sudden lightning. But, thought Lorimer, he could be prevented from striking again. He had to find him soon.

Alison Girdley walked energetically along the darkened street. The club had been good tonight, she thought, but she wanted to be home and into the shower to wash away all the hot stickiness. Her white trainers padded over the pavement. She could see the tenement building in the distance. Not far now. Just ahead, parked by the kerb, she could see a large pale vehicle. It looked like an ambulance. Curious, she thought. Why is it parked there, by waste ground? You’d expect an ambulance to be at a close mouth, associate it with stretchers, people taken away from houses.

As she drew closer to the vehicle, the driver’s door opened and a white-coated figure leaned out. Alison looked up, ready to smile, expecting to be helpful. The driver waved a piece of paper in her direction.

‘Excuse me.’ His voice halted Alison in her tracks. ‘Can you tell me where to find Jason’s Lane?’ Alison came right up to the door, her eyes on the paper. She’d never heard of it and was about to apologise when everything changed.

The driver leapt suddenly from his perch. Right towards her. Alison stepped back quickly. There was a glimpse of a chain held taut in both fists. A thin face with staring eyes. Instinctively Alison brought her knee up swiftly just as his hands were raised towards her face. The white-coated body sagged with a deep cry.

Now Alison was running, running as in the nightmares when you seem to be rooted to the spot pursued by a nameless terror and not gaining any ground. But the tenements were coming nearer. Her breath jerked out in sobs. Her chest was hurting.

Closer. Closer.

Don’t turn around. Keep going.

The first doorway yawned near. Her whole frame was pounding with the effort of gaining this escape. Was he behind? Don’t look round.

Alison stumbled against the door in the darkened hallway and pressed the bell.

‘Please. Please,’ she sobbed. When the door opened she staggered in. ‘Please. Police.’ The two words merged in a hysterical cry.

Jess Taylor put out a hand to comfort this girl.

‘What’s happened?’

Thoughts of rape flashed through her mind. You saw so much about it on the telly and in the newspapers.

‘What’s up, love?’ Mickey Taylor gently took Alison by the shoulder and propelled her into an armchair. ‘Make some tea,’ he whispered to his wife. Alison gulped. Her voice seemed to be constricted somewhere in her throat. The words came out jerkily.

‘The man. He … It’s him.’

‘Who, love?’ Mickey wondered if this girl was on drugs. She was almost incoherent.

‘The one from the park.’

Mickey suddenly understood as Alison finally gave way to rasping sobs. He left her with a pat on the arm and went over to the window. A twitch of the curtain showed a bare street. No one there.

‘Please,’ Alison tried again. ‘Please phone the police. He’s down the road.’

Instead of following her instructions, Mickey went out into the night and looked down the hill. A pale vehicle was turning in the road. Its brake lights flashed on for a moment then it slowly lumbered into the night. Mickey turned back to the house.

‘Was he in a van?’

Alison nodded, her tear-stained face miserable. ‘It was an ambulance. I thought he wanted directions, then … then …’ Her words subsided in sobs.

This was real, thought Mickey. A tremor of anger and fear shot through him. This was the horror which had been talked about by all the world and its wife these past few weeks. He reached for the telephone.

Valentine Carruthers was missing. Given the nature and habits of the average city derelict this was not really surprising. But for Chief Inspector Lorimer it was a confounded nuisance.

‘We’ve checked all the likely hostels and drop-in centres,’ he fumed, glaring at each of his officers as he paced up and down the incident room. ‘Each and every layer of cardboard city’s been turned over. And what? No trace of him!’