Christopher Fowler - White Corridor

“She never mentioned that to Arthur and me,” said May, surprised.

“No, I don’t suppose she would have done. Why would she? She doesn’t know that you know me. She was attracted by the sign on our truck, you see. Latched onto my arm and told me she had some kind of psychic gift that allowed her to see the true nature of men, but of course I saw she didn’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I asked how she knew, and she gave me the name of her mentor. I clearly made her uncomfortable, because she refused our help. There are so many frauds operating in London. Often they just crave attention, but end up draining money from those who are desperate to believe, the vulnerable ones who’ve had difficulties in the past.”

“The world is full of natural victims,” said May.

“And natural predators,” replied Maggie. “I’m afraid Kate Summerton is rather well known in South London. She’s been jailed a couple of times and isn’t legally allowed to practise anymore, not that it stops her. The odd thing is, I think she genuinely means well. But it’s unethical to use a refuge for battered women to recruit clients for spiritualism courses.”

“God, I forgot,” said May suddenly. “I have to go back down there.” He pointed to the buried road that lay below them.

“Back? What are you talking about? We’re past the worst part of the fallen snow.”

“Exactly. We were passing near Madeline Gilby’s hired car. I promised to collect something from it. Stay under the shelter of the trees. I can see the blue Toyota from here. It’ll only take a minute.”

John May half ran, half tumbled towards the inundated vehicle. Snow had covered the wheel arches and half of the bonnet. He looked around for something to dig with, settling on a broken branch. After a minute or two he was able to reach under the vehicle’s front wing. He forced his arm deep into the snow and groped around, closing frozen fingers over the envelope. It had stayed dry within the impacted drift. He wanted to stop and open it, but there was no time to waste. He began cutting back in Maggie’s direction. The witch was standing with her hands cupped about her eyes, watching for trouble.

A burning sensation in his heart caused him to stop and regain his breath. He took advantage of the respite to call the unit from his mobile. “Hello?” He could barely hear against the buffeting wind. “Who’s that? Meera? I need you to check something out for me. Quick as you can.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Maggie when he finally reached her side. “You look like someone just walked over your grave.”

“It’s been preying on my mind ever since I saw the list of victims Madeline Gilby showed me,” said May. The names on it were vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know why.“ He turned his attention to the phone.

“I can see someone,” said Maggie, pointing to a figure standing on the railway tracks ahead. “We must get up there as quickly as possible. I think Arthur is about to face his moment of truth.”

Arthur Bryant could see the faint impression of the double railway track indented through fallen snow; no train had been able to pass here since the blizzard began, but now the gale had blown the top layers clear, and with the thaw setting in it appeared that the line might become passable.

The black tracks wound over the hill towards the dark mouth of a tunnel. The cut was still inundated beyond this, so the rescue train would have to back up the line after collecting stranded travellers.

As he forced himself to concentrate on the fading footmarks in the white expanse of the hill, he could not help but wonder if his own tracks would disappear like snow prints from London’s history.

I’ve dedicated my life to something that now seems less tangible and more pointless than wood-carving, he thought, the resolution of criminal mysteries that pass entirely unnoticed by the general public. It was hardly surprising that the Home Office no longer wished to fund such a division when they gained no benefit to themselves. The PCU acted as a magnet for embarrassing publicity, and Bryant knew that his own irascibility made matters worse.

In a world where so few people are willing to become involved, we have to set an example, he thought. And so we will pass the way of censorship bodies and experimental science labs, in the same manner that Bletchley Park, the Propaganda Unit and the Mass Observation Society were no longer needed after the war. And May and I will pass, too, becoming just another quirky footnote to the capital’s strange history, along with other abandoned ideas like the GLC’s Regent Street Monorail and the 1796 plan to straighten out the Thames, and therefore perhaps that is how it should be. But for now, and until we are all ejected from our premises in Mornington Crescent, I still have a public duty to perform.

Any further musing on the past was stopped when he saw the boy.

Why is he standing there? Bryant wondered, before spotting the red handkerchief that tied his wrist to the briars of a hawthorn bush covered in icicles like cracked prisms. He lowered himself beside Ryan, whose tear-streaked cheeks were already starting to freeze. His jacket had been pulled down over his shoulders to impede his movement. “What happened?” Bryant asked, shielding him from the bitter wind as he tried to unscramble the knot with numb fingers.

“He came for us and took my mum away,” said the boy tonelessly. “He’s going to kill her on the railway line because he hates ladies.”

“Well, we’re certainly not going to let that happen.” The knot was too small and tight, and Bryant could not tear the cloth. “Can you slip your hand out for me?”

“He wants to hurt ladies,” said Ryan again, as if trying to remember something he had seen or heard elsewhere. He struggled against the material but could not pull free. His efforts seemed halfhearted, as though he had given up any thought of escape.

He’s in shock, thought Bryant. He’s not reacting normally. “ ‘Wait,” he said, “let me see if I have something that can help.” He produced a bunch of keys, selected the sharpest-looking one and began sawing at the handkerchief. “In which direction did they go?”

“Over there, into the tunnel,” said Ryan, pointing with his free hand at the black hole cut into the side of the hill.

Bryant’s heart sank. The subzero temperature had already slowed his mind and body. The thought of entering the hillside to look for Madeline and her captor cruelly exposed his defencelessness. If I stay here with Ryan she may die, he thought. But if I leave the boy…

He dug out his mobile and tried May once more. This time it rang and John answered. “I’m up at the railway line. He’s headed into the tunnel with the mother,” Bryant told his partner. “I don’t want to go in there alone. It feels like some kind of a setup. She said he only kills when he’s in a shaft of light, where God can witness his defiance.”

“So he’s the third of Maggie’s four white corridors.”

“Apparently so, but if he’s hidden in the darkness of the tunnel she’ll be safe, surely? It’s a contradiction.”

“Arthur, I’m on my way. You’re right, it’s a trap. There is no-‘

A shrill scream, distortingly high like the shriek of an excited child, sounded from the shadowy entrance of the tunnel. Without thinking, Bryant snapped the phone shut and headed off into its mouth as Ryan shouted behind him.

After all these years, it’s too late not to stay involved Bryant thought, stumbling over the bared brown railway sleepers. / can’t stand on the sidelines any longer, even if it means taking my own life in my hands.