Lisa Stone - Stalker

He read the address as he walked: 35 Bushmead Close, Cranberry Gardens. It was an estate, about a fifteen minute walk away. Slightly uneasy that Paul appeared to be one step ahead of him again, he tucked the note into his trouser pocket and began in the direction of the estate, deep in thought.

Had Paul assumed that sooner or later he would find out who was behind his silly Watching You prank and come looking for him? He must have done. It was the only explanation. It crossed Derek’s mind as he walked that he could have asked Paul’s mother when he would be back and visited him at home, but that would have meant more tedious trips on the bus and further delay. This nonsense had been going on for long enough; better to confront Paul now and put an end to it, then he could concentrate on more important matters like gathering evidence for his defence. He was pleased Paul had found another job and was working again, it should help sort him out.

Derek knew the location of the estate but wasn’t familiar with its actual layout. He’d been asked to quote for work there a couple of times in the past but those quotes hadn’t been accepted. Most of the Cranberry estate was social housing and part of it was due for redevelopment, so the residents had neither the money nor inclination to pay for surveillance.

Ten minutes later he arrived at the main road leading to the estate, hot and sweating from the walk. The day was warm, he should have brought a bottle of water with him but he hadn’t expected to be walking this far.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, stopping a man. ‘Could you tell me where Bushmead Close is?’

‘Follow this road round the edge of the estate to the far end,’ he said pointing. ‘It’s the last road on your right.’

‘Thank you.’ Derek headed off in the direction the man had pointed.

It certainly wasn’t a very salubrious area, he thought grimly as he went, rows of identical, tired-looking terraced houses and three-storey concrete flats. The buildings would have been drab and unimaginative when first built but now with years of weathering and the accumulation of general muck and grime they were positively depressing. Quite a few appeared to be empty while many others had been badly neglected, with torn curtains hanging at grubby windows. It wasn’t the sort of place Derek usually visited nor liked to be associated with. No, his clients were professional people who had nice homes and kept them well maintained.

The road ran right around the edge of the estate as the man had said and at the furthest point he saw Bushmead Close on his right. Another jungle of concrete flats, odd numbers to the right, he noted, and evens to the left. He crossed over and began along the right-hand pavement, the flats rising above him, pressing in, and even more suffocating and desolate in the narrow confines of the close. Some of the ground-floor flats seemed to be for the elderly with wheelchair ramps and handrails. A dog barked and a baby screamed from an upper floor.

He found that number 35 was in the last block at the far end of the close. He pushed open the outer door and went in. A flight of grey metal steps rose in front of him. Checking the flat numbers, he deduced that 35 was on the top floor and, avoiding touching the grubby handrail for fear of germs, he started up, his footsteps echoing on the metal steps.

What work would Paul be doing here? he wondered. Certainly not upmarket surveillance. Probably a more basic trade like plumbing or electrics; everyone needed those services at some time. Yet he would have expected to see a trade’s van outside.

Arriving at the top floor he found that 35 was at the back of the building. It was very quiet up here and had an empty feel to it. No doormats, outdoor shoes or children’s toys left by front doors, and no noise or cooking smells coming from the flats. The door for 35 was dark green and in need of a repaint like the others. The bell was taped over so Derek assumed it hadn’t worked for a while. Lifting the small metal doorknocker, he gave a double rap. No sound came from within. He knocked again, this time more loudly. Silence, then he heard the door chain rattle and a key turning in the lock. Why would workmen lock themselves in, he wondered with a stab of unease.

But then the door was opened halfway by Paul, who was smiling. ‘Hello, Derek, glad you could make it. Do come in.’

Dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the Watching You logo, it was a moment before Derek knew what to say.

‘So you’re not going to deny it was you,’ he began.

‘Of course not.’ Paul laughed and pointed to the logo. ‘But don’t stand there, come on in and I’ll explain everything.’

Not wholly reassured but needing to know and have it out with Paul – the reason he’d come here – Derek cast aside any doubts. As Paul opened the door wider, he stepped in. The hall was very dark; he could hardly see a thing. All the walls appeared to be painted black and the small single bulb hanging from the ceiling at the far end gave virtually no light at all.

‘Are you working here?’ Derek asked cautiously.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ Paul said, and closed the door behind him.

‘What’s that smell? Is something burning?’

‘That’s very perceptive of you, Derek,’ Paul said cockily. ‘We’ve just been smoking a joint. You can have one if you like.’

‘No. You know I don’t smoke.’

He heard the key turn in the lock behind him.

‘Why are you locking the door?’ he asked, spinning round.

‘Just a precaution.’

Derek hesitated. He didn’t like Paul’s manner, it was unsettling.

‘I think I should go,’ he said, taking a step to the door.

‘But you’ve only just arrived. Come on in.’

Derek remained where he was. Something wasn’t right here. Smoking a joint when he was supposed to be working? And why was it so dark?

‘We can meet later, another time,’ he said and took another step towards the door. Paul stood in his way.

‘What are you doing? I’m going now, unlock the door please.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ll see.’

Fear gripped Derek. He made a lunge for the door but Paul grabbed him.

‘What’s going on? Let me out now!’ He tried to grapple with Paul but he was younger, stronger and fitter. Derek was no match.

A chilling laugh came from the hall behind and Derek spun round. Out of the gloom a ghoul-like figure appeared, its face deathly white, sightless eyes staring at him, and fanged teeth stained with blood.

‘What the fuck is this! Let me out!’ Derek cried again, and with renewed strength managed to push Paul out of the way. He groped in the dark for the key but it had gone from the lock. He hammered on the door with both fists. ‘Help! If you can hear me, call the police!’

A movement from behind him, then a sharp pain in his upper arm followed by a metallic taste, dizziness and falling. His arms flayed the air as he went down. Down, down, collapsing in a heap on the floor. The last thing Derek saw before unconsciousness engulfed him was the grotesque face of the ghoul leering over him, holding a syringe.

Where was he? Derek’s head throbbed, his arm ached, and as he slowly regained consciousness he realized he couldn’t move. His eyes flickered open and images swam in and out of focus. He was on his side on the floor, his arms tied painfully behind his back and his legs tethered at his knees and ankles. He tried to straighten but the cord binding his legs to his knees held him firmly. His mouth was dry; he could barely swallow or part his lips. He peered into the gloom. He seemed to be in a sort of cave. Large grey rocks rose up in front of him with dead bats caught in netting, and a life-size human skeleton was slumped against one rock. He must be trapped in a nightmare.