Checking that all was clear, I eased myself around the corner of the building and limped towards the bottom of the fire escape, ducking below ground-floor windows, pausing only to try a door that I came across. It was locked and its position was too exposed for me to spend time opening it; better to stick to the original plan and use the exit door at the top of the metal staircase. I heard voices from inside the house as I moved on, other sounds from a radio or television played too loud – old people always had their sets too loud – and music coming from somewhere deeper inside the building. Just as I reached the staircase, I heard noises to my left, coming from the open entrance opposite.
Quickly I dodged into the gap between fire escape and wall, the cover not ideal, but the shadows helping. Crouching low, I stole a look between the iron stair-rails and saw a man in T-shirt and jeans emerge from the entrance and climb into the back of the Transit. Muffled scrapings, things being moved, followed before he stepped out again and turned to retrieve something he had shifted to the tail end of the big van. The object appeared to be a heavy box of some kind, which he carried back through the entrance; a pause inside to lay the box down and then he closed the double doors behind him, darkening the area between us even more. Immediately, I swung round on to the fire escape and began to climb, treading as quietly as I could but swiftly, afraid the doors might open once more, the light from inside exposing me.
Within moments I was on the first turn, testing the door there just in case it had been left open. As expected, it wouldn’t budge, so I hurried onwards, climbing as swiftly and noiselessly as I could. I crawled over the top step, not from tiredness (although the weakened muscles in my right leg were complaining) but as a precaution, and rested on the small landing beside another exit door. Steadying my breathing, I peered over the edge and looked down into the odd-shaped courtyard below: all was quiet, apart from normal muted sounds of activity inside the home itself, and all was still. Satisfied, I turned to the fire escape door behind me.
It was painted black, like those on the first and ground floors, and I sighed when I noticed it was fitted with a conventional lock and handle rather than an interior pushbar. I moved closer to examine it, the moon coming to my aid by making a timely appearance. It was a mortice lever lock, probably only two levers, certainly no more than three. Easy enough to pick.
I removed a small pouch from my jacket pocket and selected a thin metal pick and a little sprung-metal tension wrench from inside. Kneeling before the door, I inserted the wrench into the keyhole and exerted pressure on the lock bolt, following this with the pick itself. Maintaining the pressure with the wrench, I visualized the levers and bolts inside the lock, pictured the tools working on them, and felt the strain of metal on metal. I was no student of Zen, but I think its proponents would have been proud of me.
In less than two minutes I had raised the levers and racked in the bolt. The door was open.
Returning the tools to the pouch, the pouch to my pocket, I gently pushed against the door until there was a gap wide enough to see through. I listened also, but all that came to me were the same muffled sounds I had heard earlier; those and that awful pervasive odour that seems always to linger in old people’s homes. I eased my way in, carefully looking around, still listening, and closed the door behind me.
The long corridor I found myself in was quite dingy, its main source of light coming from two open doorways further along and a wall light where there was a turn, presumably towards a staircase. I guessed that this top floor was mainly staff quarters, for the décor and what pieces of furniture I could see were plainly functional. It disturbed me not to find hanging nearby, if not in the lock itself, any visible key to the exit I’d just broken through, and I wondered how the nurses and carers would cope if they became trapped up here by fire. Even if each staff member had their own personal key, the absence of one in or close to the door went against all safety regulations. Maybe Dr Wisbeech didn’t like the idea of anyone casually wandering out on to the fire escape.
The sound of voices came to me from the turn at the end of the corridor and it was growing louder, coming closer. I realized I would have to move fast if I wasn’t to be caught out in the open. I made off in the opposite direction to the voices and managed to duck into another corridor on the right just before figures appeared from around the corner. I leaned against the wall, heart thumping, wondering if I’d been seen.
The voices drew even closer, but there were no shouts of alarm or running footsteps. I quickly looked about me for a means of escape should it be necessary. Behind me was a staircase leading to the lower floor and possibly towards the home’s main hallway; opposite were a couple of plain doors, probably to storage cupboards or bathrooms.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a problem, for the footsteps stopped, although the conversation went on. It was two women talking, presumably nurses or care-supervisors, and they gabbled on for another few minutes until I heard a door close, then footsteps of one person continuing towards my hiding place. I slid back along the wall, ready to bolt down the staircase, not trusting the doors opposite to be unlocked. I was lucky again though: the footsteps stopped, a door opened and closed, and then there was silence apart from the usual faraway sounds in the nursing home.
I went back to the main corridor and checked it was clear in both directions. That was when I noticed for the first time the oddly-angled vestibule opposite the side corridor. Inside it was a cushioned chair and a long-legged wall-table beneath a framed picture, the kind of oddments you might find in the hall lobby of a slightly low-grade hotel. Its rear wall was diagonal rather than straight (which was why the space was odd-shaped), a large, flat double door set into it, and I realized this must be the entrance to the top floor of the annexe.
Making sure the coast was still clear, I crossed over to get a closer look at the doors. There were no handles on this side and one glance at the lock told me it was the cylinder type which, depending on the number of cylinders involved, can sometimes be the devil to bypass. Normally, I loved the challenge – I’d learned to pick locks many years ago, taught by one of Brighton’s master burglars, aware it was a knack that could serve me well in my future years as a PI (and I’d been right), and it was an art at which I’d kept practised, purchasing all manner of locks, taking them apart and reassembling them so that I fully understood their workings, obtaining and even modifying the best tools for particular types, studying the surest techniques in manuals or taking advice from my pal the burglar, spending tedious hours on all varieties and variations, at first using strong rubber bands as tension grips until becoming fast enough to maintain my own pressure. Eventually, the obsession had become a hobby, but one, I’m proud to say, I was particularly good at.
I surmised by the appearance of the lock that there were only two cylinders inside, the inner one of which had to be turned to retract the bolt holding the door closed; to do that I had to raise the different-length spring-loaded pins that prevented rotation to a universal sheer level. I was hoping there were no more than five pins within, but knew that if this was a serious lock, then there might be as many as seven and all would have to be lifted twice.
As before, I inserted the small tension wrench into the keyhole and applied easy pressure against the first inner cylinder, turning it in the necessary direction. Holding the tension, I pushed in the pick itself and found the furthest pin; a little jiggle and it moved upwards. That achieved, I had to go all the way down the line, raising each pin until the bolt sprang back, a painstaking process that my nervousness did not help. I was on the third pin when I heard voices again.
They were some distance off, but growing louder with each moment, coming along the main corridor from the end stairway. I broke out into a sweat, aware that I could not dash back to my previous cover with its subsidiary staircase without being seen. I worked on the lock more quickly, praying that whoever was coming might turn off into one of the rooms along the way, forcing myself to remain calm, fingers beginning to tr
emble. I reached what I felt sure was the last pin – the seventh (it was a serious lock), and cursed when it stuck because I’d moved it too hastily.
Oh Christ. The voices were becoming louder, the footsteps closer, and I had to go through the whole process again! Taking a deep breath and steadying my hands, I went back to the first pin. Okay, pressure on the wrench again, tickle metal and raise that pin just a little. Done. Good. Next one. Quick. But easy, take it easy. Done. Good. Next.
And so I progressed down the line, moving determinedly, each new pin doing exactly what was required of it, the voices and footsteps drawing nearer all the while. I knew, I just knew, they were not going to turn away, that they were going to walk right by this niche in the corridor, but I couldn’t work any faster. Without removing the implements, I ducked my head and wiped sweat that was threatening to trickle from my brow into my eye on my sleeve. I nearly lost it again on the last one and had to make myself ease the pressure. Slowly, smoothly, gently. Feel the metal against metal, think of the pin and pick as an extension of your own arm. The pin joined the sheer line and I left it there. Now back to the first one again – the whole process had to be repeated, the pins finely tuned. A soft touch, on to the next one.
The voices were almost upon me. A few more steps and I’d be in view. Jesus, this was painful. Next one. Got it. And now the last one, the trickiest of them all.
It was a man and woman approaching; I could hear their conversation plainly, something about a problem with one of the ‘crusties’ (a geriatric, I assumed), followed by a snigger. Oh shit. But I was there, the last pin, and gently, very, very gently, I lifted it. Slowly until . . . I was there, the pin was at sheer level with all the others. The lock sprung and I winced at the click.
Immediately, I pushed one side of the double door open, and slipped through. I didn’t close it completely behind me – I couldn’t risk the noise – but rested the very edge against the neighbouring door so that it would appear to be shut to the casual observer. Praying that the couple were not headed this way, I pressed my ear against the wood to listen. I heard the muffled voices pass by and I let out a deep sigh of relief. Returning the tools to their pouch and that to my pocket, I looked around me.
I was in a brightly-lit area, which had a bare wood floor and partitioned rooms on either side. To my right was an open storeroom, a closed door behind which I assumed was the stairs to this level, and in the far corner the metal doors to a lift; on my left, the top half of the partitioning was framed glass, so I could see inside. It appeared to be an office of some kind, for there was a desk and filing cabinets, with stacked shelves making up the rear wall (I remembered there were no windows on that side). There was a sink, a dull-chrome electric kettle on its draining board. There was no typewriter or computer on the desk, but there was a large, open book – a desk diary, I thought – and a telephone; hanging on the wall behind were sets of keys and an intercom. Fortunately for me, it was empty of any persons.
At the far end, and directly opposite to where I stood, was another set of double doors, and it was only then that I noticed the smell coming from that direction.
As I’ve mentioned before, my sense of smell has always been acute – I can always distinguish different perfumes, even tell different blends of whisky purely by sniffing the glass – but I couldn’t even imagine what this odour comprised. Yes, with it was the familiar mix of antiseptic and stale cooking, but there was also a kind of fetor about this stench that no amount of prophylactic measures could disguise. There was the scent of corruption. Corruption and something more.
I went towards the double doors, treading warily, alert for any new sounds. In fact, there was only silence here in this part of PERFECT REST, although I sensed it was an uneasy silence. Half-way across the floor I stopped, as if frozen. I listened, I breathed in the tainted air. I waited.
And as I waited, a terrible unidentifiable conflict raged within me. I felt that everything that had come to pass – and I don’t mean just the phenomena of the past week – had led me to this point, as if everything that had ever happened to me was merely milestones in the journey towards this place and this moment. There was no rationale, no sense at all to it, just the overwhelming sensation that some kind of destiny awaited me here. My whole life seemed to present itself in one saturating but swift thought, the way it does, or so we’re told, when death is close at hand, everything experienced again in a brief, encapsulating flashback. Yet all experienced objectively, the memories within the instant memory there to be considered and reviewed. It was inexplicable and unaccountable, irrational and profound – it was crazy. It stopped me dead and I shivered with its immensity.
Somehow I knew that an answer was waiting for me behind those doors. The problem was, I had no idea of the question.
An inner, more cautious voice begged me to get out of there, that whatever awaited beyond was not worth the fear and anxiety, that normalcy was better than any spiritual or intellectual revelation. The clairvoyant had warned that there was danger here for me, the sly voice of reason told me, and she was right, you knew she was right. But something drove me forward – an intense curiosity, a sense of what was right, that old standby, instinct? I had no idea what impelled me. I quickened my step as I drew nearer to the double doors, as if momentum would help defeat the doubts.
I arrived at this portal to God-knows-what in a rush, almost slamming against it. Unlike the door whose lock I had just picked, there were horizontal handles on each side here, and I pushed down on one. The door didn’t budge.
As I reached for the leather pouch once again, another idea struck me. I went to the empty office on my left, its door already open wide, and examined the keys hanging on the board behind the desk. There were two sets, a whole group of keys on each, and one empty hook (I assumed whoever used the office had the absent set about his or her person). I snatched a ring and returned to the locked entrance.
One key belonged to a ward lock, the type used for cupboards or storage-rooms, and I disregarded it, choosing another that looked particularly suitable, and as I inserted it into the keyhole I thought I heard a noise on the other side of the door. Pressing my ear to the tight gap between doors, I listened for a few seconds, but heard nothing more. I tried to turn the key and nothing happened, so I withdrew it and pushed in the third one. I felt and heard the pins inside the lock move and the bolt snapped back. Before putting pressure on the handle to open the door, I listened.
Nothing. No sounds. Only that awful stench wafting through the narrowest of gaps between sides. I pushed open the door a fraction and the foul odour of rottenness swept over me, causing me momentarily to flinch away, almost to gag. Quickly I reached for my handkerchief and pressed it against my nose and mouth. Swallowing hard, I opened the door further and peeked in.
Inside was a long, dark room, its far end invisible in the gloom. There were a few nightlights scattered along its length, their glow too soft to illuminate much, but as my eye grew accustomed to the darkness, I was able to make out the nearest beds lined against both walls. Opening the door wide to allow in some light from behind, I saw shapes on those nearby beds, shadowy unmoving lumps. Even through the handkerchief mask, the smell was appalling.
My vision was rapidly adjusting and the extra light from outside enabled me to see that there were no windows in this room, although the wall to my right jutted inwards at regular intervals like blind, shallow chimney breasts. They puzzled me, because this wall was on the river side and I was sure I had seen windows from where I had stopped on the main road across the river. The wall on the opposite side of the long room, the one that overlooked the triangular courtyard, was also blank as would be expected, but this failed even to have projections to break up its plainness. With its cot-like beds, this place appeared to be a large dormitory; but one without windows and behind locked doors?
I stiffened when there was movement among the shadows. I could hear something shuffling from the blackness of the far end. Something moving in
my direction.
I strained my eye, peering into the thick, inky gloom, even more afraid now that the unknown was about to be revealed. I was so scared that I could not even breathe.
The shuffling continued, a soft, scuffling approach, a disembodied sound until a shape began to emerge from the umbra. The dim glow from the nightlights began to give it some form and I wanted to reach for my torch so that I could throw my own light on to it, but I was mesmerized by the movement, immobilized by the fear. It appeared to be weaving slightly as it came.
Then I saw the figure was small and, as it advanced into the light cast by the open doorway behind me, I noticed it was wearing over-sized slippers. Finally, I let my breath go and stepped aside from the doorway so that I blocked none of the light coming through.
It was not only small, but frail also, unsteady as it moved, and I realized it was a child, a weak, unhealthy child. I almost smiled in both welcome and relief. But then I saw the face.
It wasn’t a child’s face, for it was wizened, deeply lined, the sickly pallid skin stained with brown liver spots that mottled its features and rose over the narrow, almost hairless skull. Whether male or female, it was too ancient and too ravaged to tell. The pale eyes that returned my gaze were watery and red-rimmed, yellowed around the pupils; and the flesh was so hollowed beneath the jutting cheekbones, the face seemed to be holed on either side of the lipless, wrinkled mouth.