The Silent Ones (25 page)

He could hear muffled voices in the room, could feel the cold sweat of fear on his back. Above him was the flue that took the fumes and smoke up and away. Darren was a big guy, rangy and long-limbed, and only back here he could unfold and actually stand up properly, his feet in the incinerator and his body in the pipe. Darren put his hands on the side of the flue and pulled himself up, anchoring his body with his trainers against the sides.

Tracey counted down from three silently on her fingers before opening the incinerator door, Alan standing ready with the baton and a torch. Alan shone the torch in. The space was small, blackened and scorched from a thousand sad things and redundant or poisoned body parts being seared within. Tracey and the others leaned over his shoulder and shook their heads.

Everyone relaxed a little. Alan shone the torch beneath the grate and around the small space again. He was about to stand up and close the door, put an end to this attention-seeking charade, when something made him stop. He squinted and frowned. At the back of the furnace something had caught in the light of the torch. Alan leaned in closer.

It was a shoelace, hanging down from the flue.

‘Suspect in the furnace, come out now!’

Darren knew it was hopeless, that there was no way out, but he did the only thing he could do. He carried on, like they had done when Carly went missing. Every day then was like crawling through the darkest hole, the horror of what had gathered them up never-ending. He began to climb the flue, pushing outwards with his hands and feet to give him traction.

Alan didn’t hesitate to crawl into the incinerator. In the torchlight he could see a figure making rapid progress away from him. But Alan did think twice about climbing after him; he was a big guy who liked his pies and his pints and he knew when he was beaten; when a big round object wouldn’t fit. This guy was trapped like a badger in a hole, anyway. He scrambled back out and they began to organise.

Darren kept going blindly in the pitch dark, up, up, up, because going back was worse. The pipe turned a right angle and now it was easier to pull himself along horizontally, but soon the flue turned to vertical once again. He climbed on up, his thighs burning and his arms cramping. He was soon gasping for air, a foul burning sensation at the back of his throat. He lost his sense of time and direction, and his panic began to build. After what could have been minutes or hours he came to an obstruction and, after feeling around for a moment, realised that the flue divided into two. Left or right? He chose the left tube and crawled on. The space was smaller than that he had been climbing until now but he groped on, his shoulders straining and his legs screaming.

He hit his head on the roof of the tunnel and nearly fell back down the pipe he had so laboriously climbed.

He couldn’t go on. The pipe was squeezing the very breath out of him; he would die and he would have failed his parents and Carly. Tears stung his eyes, something acrid and stinging draining into them.

He came to another twist in the pipe, scrambled round another corner and crawled along horizontally. He came to another right angle that bent upwards, but the angles were smaller here and he couldn’t get round to stand up in it. The metal was clamping round his chest as he scrabbled for a way through. He started to scream. He was stuck in a pitch black tube, unable to go forward or back. Yawning chasms of terror overwhelmed him and he nearly blacked out.

He took a deep breath in, the air still acrid. He couldn’t bend his body round the right angle of the tube, so wriggled round until he was lying face up and tried that way, slithering along on the oily residue. The pipe felt inches wider now, which to Darren seemed as large as a cave. He began to climb, pressing his palms and his knees against the sides of the pipe for traction, and felt the air change. He looked up and above him was a small circle of night sky.

A police team were in the car park strapping themselves into flak jackets and checking equipment, their leader on the phone to a maintenance manager.

‘The furnace is a pyrolysis incinerator that is environmentally efficient—’

‘Where does the flue go?’ the sergeant demanded.

‘Up through the walls of the hospital. About halfway up the flue splits into two. One returns the gases back to the incinerator and the other goes up to the roof.’

‘Is it large enough for a human?’

‘I doubt it. We never checked. No one’s stupid enough to climb into an incinerator.’ There was a pause. ‘I thought.’

The sergeant sighed. ‘The fool’s more likely to get stuck in it. Where does it come out?’

‘On the roof to the far left of the helicopter pad.’

‘How many storeys in this building?’

‘Three, but only in some parts. It varies.’

The policeman looked up at the jumble of levels, the new wings and departments added in different decades, floors jutting out further the closer to the ground one got, like an ugly tiered cake. ‘You need a ladder. It’s twenty feet off the ground,’ the maintenance manager said.

‘Go,’ the sergeant commanded his team.

Darren pressed on, exhausted and panicked, the goal ahead of him tantalisingly close. The fresh air was so joyful he cried anew. He reached the top of the flue and pushed at the wire grate that covered the entrance. It wouldn’t budge.

Three policemen used a variety of ladders near the helicopter pad to move across the roof of the building. It was slow work, negotiating maintenance ladders in the dark. They went in formation, keeping low in the shadows.

Darren pushed and punched again and again at the wire grate across the exit to the flue but it held fast. Even more worrying than being caught was his fear that he was going to fall, that his arms, strengthened though they were by his fitness regime, all his chin-ups, would eventually fail. He started shouting, banging on the top and sides of the flue, his hands bleeding, his nails ripping.

The moon came out from behind a cloud and gave him a little more light. The wire was attached to the metal flue by a rubber ring. He began clawing and pushing at the rubber and, instead of trying to push the wire, grabbed it and tried to pull it towards him while pushing outwards on the rubber. It moved. He yanked hard and managed to dislodge one side of the wire from the rubber. He got his hand on the edge of the flue and could rest his burning thighs for a blissful moment. Using brute force he pushed the wire cover with his head and climbed out, scraping his head, neck and shoulders as he passed.

He rested, his chest hanging over the side of the flue, miles of south London stretching away all around him. Then he realised he was twenty feet off the ground.

Now, instead of the relentless push outwards with arms and legs to climb the flue, he needed to grip tightly. He climbed out and down by hugging the sides of the flue tightly with his thighs and his arms. The contrary movement was a blessed release for his aching limbs. He fell the last ten feet and lay on the ground for a moment, stunned. Then he got up and ran to the right, away from the helicopter pad he could see in the distance.

The police fanned out across the roof, careful not to miss anyone who might be hiding in the shadows, and surrounded the flue. Two of the men kept on going across the roof; the other climbed the ladder.

Darren ran across the roof and down a ladder to a lower level, came to the edge of the roof and looked over. Squares of light from the windows on the floor below him lit up the roof felt. He used a drainpipe to climb down. The windows were in a corridor and two were open to the warm air. He pulled at one of them and slid through, closing it behind him.

He walked fast along the corridor and ducked into a toilet.

His face in the mirror was a shock. He was covered in black smears and his hands and head were bleeding and bruised. He ran the hot water and cleaned himself as best he could with paper towels and soap, ditching his shirt to reveal the T-shirt underneath and wash his arms. He stuck his face under the cold tap and let the water run colder and colder over him. Then he followed the signs for the exit.

The policeman climbed the ladder carefully, keen to avoid a mishap. He looked carefully over the rim of the flue, tensed for a surprise. He saw the bent grate, sharp edges pointing starwards, and a collection of long blond hairs caught on the wires and drifting in the wind.

A
senior police officer was interviewing Olivia, standing at the end of her bed in the basement. ‘What did this person look like? I want as accurate a description as possible.’

Pronouns told a person a lot, Olivia decided. The policeman had used the word ‘person’ twice in two sentences, which meant to Olivia that they didn’t know who they were searching for. Darren had got away. She was genuinely surprised. But then many things about Darren Evans were turning out to be surprising.

She had been careless. But he had got inside her Teflon shell and when she had screamed she had been prepared to give him up. After all, power was an illusion that was easy to puncture – she needed to keep it inflated.

She studied the policeman at the end of the bed. She had already been subjected to a body cavity search; she was damned if she was going to make their jobs easier.

‘I was groggy, half asleep, the pills, the pain …’ She was laying it on thick. I woke and wondered if I was still dreaming. It was a woman.’

Olivia saw the detective lean in, more animated now. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘The hair. I saw long hair.’

T
hey would come for him. It was only a matter of time. Olivia had given him up. The worst thing was that it felt like betrayal, as if they had had an acknowledged connection that she had then cast aside, a code of behaviour and she had let the side down. Darren was delusional expecting such a thing from a despicable creature such as that.

He had committed a serious crime. He needed to man up, take responsibility and tell his dad what he had done before the police pulled up in the car with the flashing lights and he gave his parents a whole fresh level of pain. And his mum wasn’t even out of her hospital bed.

But he was so tired, emotionally and physically, from his desperate battle to get out of the flue, that he was pulled back home. Like an animal returning to its burrow, it was the only place he could think of to go. He dragged his bike into the hallway and left it there, managed to get up the stairs and collapsed on his bed.

His sleep was as deep as the grave.

He was woken in the morning by the sun drilling into his eyeballs through the open curtains. Every cell in his body ached, every taste bud contaminated with something tangy and unpleasant, every inch of skin papery and sore.

He staggered downstairs in search of tea, and found his dad already there. He had that look on his face, Darren realised, that he had seen before: disappointment.

‘So you left her without even saying goodbye for the night? She was waiting for you to come back from wherever you’d gone to.’ He wiped a hand across his brow. ‘After she found out who was there in the hospital …’ He trailed off, not wanting to have to explain further. ‘She was upset.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t feel well.’

‘You came in so late. Where were you?’

‘I walked home.’

‘Walked? I had to move the bike out into the garden. You couldn’t even be bothered to do that.’

‘Shit.’ Darren ran his hands over his hair. It felt greasy. ‘It’s Orin’s fault.’

‘You leaving her alone isn’t his fault. Take some responsibility.’ He gave a huff of frustration. ‘She needs you to be reliable right now, Darren. Now of all times.’ He reached into the fridge for a beer, not even pretending to hide what he was doing.

Guilt stole over Darren like a shroud. ‘I’ll go to see her again today.’

His dad looked away. ‘That’s not necessary. She’s discharging herself and is coming home.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘No, but she wants to be away from all that. I can’t persuade her otherwise.’

Darren felt responsible for this too. His worry increased in tandem with his guilt.

‘You left this place in a right state. She needs to come back to somewhere clean. What are all these white bits all over the carpet? And the front of the house, what’s happening with that? It looks worse now than it did before.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ He opened the fridge, took a look at the sorry contents within. Mum’s absence had made the proportion of bottles to food change dramatically. He picked up a takeaway food carton and opened it. He was starving, hadn’t eaten last night. ‘This spicy?’

‘Thai red curry.’ He pulled a fork from a drawer as his dad slurped from his beer. Darren picked up a cold forkful and chewed the curry.

His dad winced. ‘You don’t want to heat that up?’

Darren shook his head. He needed Tabasco, though. He opened a cupboard and scanned its contents. He put a knee on the kitchen counter and hoiked himself up, pushing aside containers of dried herbs on the top shelf. He found the Tabasco and turned back to Dad, who was leaning back on the counter, staring up at him, his arms folded in a ‘what the hell’ gesture.

Darren froze.

‘Jesus, do I really look that bad?’ Dad asked defensively.

Darren put the Tabasco down. With his knees on the counter he was much taller than his dad, and he saw his tired and drawn face in a new light. And a thought came to him that changed everything.

He got slowly off the counter. ‘No. I just looked at you from a different perspective.’

‘You need to finish painting the house. You promised her.’ Darren wasn’t listening. His mind was a whirl of possibilities. ‘Are you even listening?’

Darren focused on what Dad was saying. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I can’t take much more,’ his dad said. ‘All I can do is go to the hospital and sit there and hope she’s going to be OK. You know what I thought yesterday, Darren? You know what I spent most of the day at the hospital thinking? That I was lucky.’ He took a long sip of beer.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That I have a wife who is seriously ill with cancer, and I was lucky. Because I wouldn’t have to spend my time thinking about what might have happened to my murdered daughter.’ Dad looked at the ceiling as if waiting to find an answer there in the cracks. ‘Maybe she was right. Maybe I’m guilty.’