D. Mitchell: The King of Terrors

‘I can tell you later. Now, are you going to trust me?’

She nodded, held out her arm. Stephanie swabbed and injected. ‘You should start to feel its effects in a minute or two. Until then, slip this on.’ She handed her the lab-coat.

‘I’ve not seen you before,’ said the woman, doing as she was bid and threading her slim arms into the sleeves of the coat.

‘I work in a different part of the complex ordinarily. I got myself posted here, when I heard about you. When I was told about you.’

‘Came to stare at the freak?’ Her fingers fumbled over the buttons, but she felt strength beginning to seep through her body again.

Stephanie helped pin the name badge on the coat pocket. ‘Not a freak. You’re someone very special. And I don’t agree with any of this,’ she said, her hand flapping dismissively at the room. ‘It’s wrong, it’s vile, and it will end tonight. Hurry, someone is waiting for us outside.’ She could hardly disguise her nervousness.

The young woman slipped her feet into the shoes, bent to tie the laces. She was aware of her swollen midriff pressing against her upper thighs. ‘So who is waiting for us?’ the suspicion strong in her voice.

‘Pipistrelle,’ Stephanie replied.

‘And who is Pipistrelle?’

‘A friend. He knows all about you. All of you. Now please hurry, we must be going.’ She helped the woman to her feet. She tottered uncertainly. ‘Are you able to walk alright? It’s important that if we are stopped you must be taken for one of us.’

‘Yes, I can walk,’ she said.

Stephanie checked the corridor was empty before beckoning the woman follow. They turned immediately right, the hard tiles amplifying their urgent steps. They passed through double doors and into another stretch of corridor. At the head of this stood a security guard.

‘Leave all the talking to me,’ said Stephanie.

The uniformed guard watched them intently as they approached, his cold, boulder-like expression gave the impression he was going to pose a problem, but he hardly glanced at the name badges. He didn’t say a thing as he stepped aside, and did nothing to hide his leering stare at Stephanie’s breasts.

The women passed through the door and halfway down the corridor Stephanie paused and looked back. ‘We need to go this way,’ she said, nodding to a metal door, taking out a bunch of keys and fumbling through them till she found the one she was looking for. She unlocked the door and pushed at it. The hinges gave a high-pitched squeal which caused Stephanie to wince. ‘Quickly, inside,’ she beckoned, and all but dragged the young woman inside with her.

She flicked a switch. A single low-wattage bulb lit the interior of the small room with a cold glow. It was empty, its concrete walls dripping wet, a choking, musty smell hanging in the air. There was a door at the far end, this one coated in a layer of rich red rust.

‘What is this place?’ asked the woman. ‘It’s like a Second World War bunker.’

‘That’s because, after a fashion, that’s what it is,’ Stephanie explained quickly. She found out another key. ‘This entire building is deep underground. It was designed as a chemical warfare research centre during the last war, both secret and bombproof. Very few people know of its existence. There’s more than one entrance to this complex — this is one of those that isn’t used anymore.’ She pushed open the door and removed a flashlight from her coat pocket. The concrete-lined tunnel ahead was pitch-black, the small beam hardly putting a dent in the dark.

‘How do you know about all this?’ the young woman asked.

‘Pipistrelle; he told me.’

‘He knows quite a lot,’ she said.

‘Yes, he does,’ she said. ‘He’s made it his business to know. Without him you’d be in here till you died. You’ve a lot to thank him for.’

With the door closed behind them the darkness appeared to press ever closer, eating away at the feeble torch beam. Stephanie set off with a purpose, the young woman following as close as she could, her legs at times hardly able to support her. She was grateful when they came to a stop beside a metal ladder bolted against the wall. Stephanie shone the light up the narrow, metal lined shaft above their heads.

‘Up here,’ she said. ‘You go first; I’ll help you if you need it. It goes up for fifty feet or more and then there’s a trapdoor. It’s unlocked; you just need to push it open.’

They started to a noise coming from the way they’d come, back down the corridor. Voices, raised in concern. The young woman, her face wreathed in alarm, looked at Stephanie. ‘Are they onto us?’ she asked nervously.

It fell silent. They both strained to listen. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘You must hurry, up the ladder. We’re almost there.’

Her fears were confirmed when she heard at the end of the corridor, from behind the closed metal door. ‘Doctor Jacobs, are you there? Do you have her with you?’ She’d locked the door but it wouldn’t be too long before they sourced another key or realised which exit they were headed for. ‘Open the door, Doctor Jacobs. You know you can’t go far.’

‘We have to get to the top before they send someone to cover the exit,’ she said, pushing against the young woman who’d begun to ascend the ladder.

With every minute stretched taught and long they eventually reached the trapdoor and the young woman heaved her shoulder against it. The metal lid swung open and clanged shrilly against a stone floor. They clambered out of the shaft and into another empty room, a broken window letting in a pale wash of moonlight. In an open doorway stood the silhouetted figure of a man, waiting for them.

‘Pipistrelle!’ said Stephanie breathlessly. ‘She’s here. Take her, quickly. They can’t be far behind us.’

The man stepped forward. His lower face was swathed in a large scarf, all but his eyes visible. He held a blanket, which he draped across the young woman’s shoulders. ‘This way.’ His voice was peculiarly warm and reassuring. ‘We’re here to save you,’ he said. He turned to Stephanie. ‘Make for your car, draw them off if needs be, and we’ll meet at the arranged place.’

‘Do you have my daughter?’ said Stephanie.

‘She’s safe. Don’t worry about her. Now hurry.’

The yard had fallen into disuse many years ago, the tarmac heavily cratered, with weeds forcing up tiny black hillocks so that it looked like a vast volcanic landscape in miniature; the wire fence that encircled it, with connecting concrete posts, was still in place but heavily twisted and rusted, in some areas split open. They rushed towards a gate, the padlocked chain having been cut open. They entered another similar yard, treading over the ghostly outlines of buildings long since demolished. Through another gate at the far end they emerged onto a side road. Waiting for them was an old, pale- green Commer van; sat behind it was a Volkswagen Beetle. Pipistrelle opened the door of the van and Stephanie helped the young woman up into the seat. The engine spluttered into noisy life.

She slammed the door shut as the van drove off, its wheels giving a tiny squeal as they sought purchase on the icy road surface, and she launched herself into her Beetle, her breath pumping out in clouds as she fumbled with the ignition key. She’d avoided the staff car park tonight. Once locked behind those gates it would have been difficult to get out with the girl. She wondered how Pipistrelle knew about this exit. There was much about him she did not know.

She looked through the side window at the rear of the looming, dark hulk of the squat Art Deco building, sitting there like a malevolent behemoth. She turned the key in the ignition and the car refused to start. Her urgent breathing fogged up the windows, which iced up on contact, pasting a thin diaphanous glaze on the glass. At length the engine exploded into motion. She stuck the car’s heater onto full, knowing even on high they were lukewarm at the best of times, when they worked at all. She had not expected such a sharp frost tonight, and she cursed herself for not having placed something over the windscreen to keep it clear. The windscreen wipers scraped a few channels in the frost. She had no choice, she could not hang around.