Creed (30 page)

‘Come
on
!’ she urged, and the desperation in her voice almost did the trick. Creed jerked himself off the wall and adopted the sprinter’s start; he was locked into that pose by a roaring that came from the black hole opposite.

It was as if the room had belched.

The wind caught Creed and the girl and slammed them back against the corridor wall. Objects came crashing through – empty file books, pens, a shower of hornet-like paper clips, a waste bin – smallish objects that hit them like shrapnel, cutting and punching them, forcing them to protect their faces with their arms. The roar ceased, leaving them cowering against tattered wallpaper.

At first it seemed there was no noise; then they became aware of what sounded like a repeated sighing.

‘I think they’ve exhausted themselves,’ Cally said in a quiet voice.

The second roar came as abruptly as the first, but it was a thousand times louder and a thousand times worse. It was a brutal hurricane that spat its wrath at them, tearing at their skin, distorting their features, ripping at their clothes. An old Adler typewriter crashed against the wall only inches from Cally’s head. Creed looked up to see the room’s large desk appear from the black and jam against the doorframe with such a jolt that old plaster fell away from either side and the frame itself cracked and splintered. The door buckled when something else struck its base.

He closed his eyes against the wind and dust; hands tugged at him once more.

Cally’s voice was feeble against the storm: ‘. . .
move, move, move . . .
’

Bent double, they staggered away from the heart of the maelstrom, the gale howling round the corridor after them, its intensity diffused a little. They choked on the dirt gathered by the tempest, wiping it from their eyes as they ran. Lengths of wallpaper, skinned from the walls, waved comic-strip arms at them as they passed.

The iron folding gate of the lift was open and they both fell through as though the cage itself might provide refuge from inclement weather. And it did. The storm stayed outside, whirlpooling round the liftshaft, dust motes and junk sailing in the currents. Cally slammed the outer door shut, then did the same with the inner door. Miraculously, with the closing of the doors, the wind outside abated.

All became quiet once more. Dust, abandoned by the wind, began to settle.

‘Let’s get the fuck out of here,’ Creed suggested shakily. He sagged against the sturdy grillework of the cage.

Her voice was almost as unnerved as his. ‘They’re used up. We’re going to be all right.’

‘Yeah, you said that last time. D’you mind if we get while the going’s good?’

She nodded and her finger was trembling when she pressed the G button.

The elevator dropped like a stone.

Creed wailed as he clutched at the bars behind him, his body lifting of its own accord so that he was on tiptoe, his stomach somewhere under his chin, his head, it seemed, left up there on the seventh floor. Cally was just as panicked: she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him as though he might provide some comfort. It flashed through his mind that her added weight would do him no good at all when they landed, but pushing her away meant letting go of the cage wall (how holding on to the bars would help him when the lift hit bottom he hadn’t quite worked out). It further occurred to him (very fast, these thoughts, practically instant) that he should jump into the air a moment before the elevator touched ground; that way only his legs might get broken. But when to jump, how would he know? How many
clunks
had he heard so far as the cage bumped through each level? It was no good, he’d lost count, this was really it.
Oh Mother . . .

The lift slowed, lurched, plummeted again, this time less hastily; machinery groaned and whined. It squ
eeee
led.

Creed and the girl collapsed to the floor as the elevator droned to an awkward but mercifully gradual stop. They had reached the ground floor.

Cally raised her head first. She looked around and saw daylight shining from the end of the hallway.

‘Creed – Joe, we’re safe. We’re okay.’ She shook his shoulder.

Creed took his hands away from his face and looked up. He gazed around him. ‘We’re on the ground,’ he said.

‘Yes. But come on, let’s get out of here.’

‘We’re on the ground,’ he said again, his mouth remaining open as if in awe.

‘Come
on
,’ she persisted. She got to her feet, then helped him up; they leaned against one another on rubbery legs. He had to assist her in opening the gates, but that was no problem; his instinct for survival was re-establishing itself by the second.

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he told her as if the idea was fresh.

She shook her head in despair, but said nothing.

Creed shot out of the lift and Cally raced after him. She had to chase him all the way back to his jeep.

As you might imagine, by now Joe Creed had had enough. If he’d passed a policeman on the way back to the jeep he’d have blurted out everything that had happened thus far, with no embellishment (hardly any needed), no lies, no underplaying and no exaggeration – the whole truth and nothing but. However, as the adage goes, there’s never one around when you want one, and maybe that’s as well in this instance: he’d have probably been locked up and put under sedation until a vacancy in the nearest mental hospital could be found. His appearance wouldn’t have helped his case either: his clothes were filthy and unkempt (more unkempt than usual) and his hands and forehead were bleeding where glass had cut him.

On the whole, not a respectable sight, and gibberings about a sex-craved woman who could reshape her body into all manner of bizarre and fantastical things and rooms that were nothingness voids and an ugly man who’d kidnapped his ten-year-old son and a lift that had dropped like a stone but slowed at the last moment and another man who looked like Count Dracula,
no
not Christopher Lee but Nosferatu, you know, the vampire from the original German movie, and they’d nailed his cat over the door and . . . well, you can see, the police wouldn’t have taken him too seriously. And, of course, it was doubtful whether the girl would back him up.

Cally rapped on the Suzuki’s passenger window and he thought twice about leaning across and unlocking the door.

‘You need me!’ she shouted through the glass. Passers-by looked at her pityingly; one matronly lady told her not to waste her life on the ‘shit-bag’ (and this stranger didn’t even
know
Creed).

He let Cally in. ‘Joe, where are you going?’ she asked immediately.

‘To the nearest nick, where d’you think? I’ve had enough of this.’

‘Don’t do that. Drive home and let me talk to you. If you want to involve the police after that, I won’t stop you.’

‘You couldn’t.’

‘All right, I couldn’t. All I ask is that you hear me out.’

‘It’s the same old line with you. Look where it’s got me.’

‘This one last time. Think of your son.’

‘I am thinking of him. But what more can I do? I brought the shots, I gave them to that . . . that thing, that woman. Isn’t that enough? What the hell do they want from me?’

‘Drive home, Joe, and I’ll do my best to explain. Any other way and you’re going to lose.’

For at least half a minute he looked deep into her blue eyes. She seemed anxious, and more than a little scared. Was it for him though, was she really concerned for him and Sammy? As yet he had still not found out her role in all this.
As yet he’d found out nothing at all.

‘You’ll tell me what’s going on?’

‘As much as I can.’ She turned away from him. ‘It’s up to you whether or not you believe me.’

He frowned, but switched on the engine. ‘It’d better make some kind of sense, Cally, otherwise I’m bringing in the police, the newspaper, the fucking Pope in Rome – anyone I can think of who might do some good. And if I think you’re stringing me along, I’m turning you over to the Law. I’ll tell ’em you were the one who took Sammy.’ He tried to make all this sound mean and moody, but the bubbling hysteria just behind the words was hard to suppress. The strange thing was, Cally looked genuinely sorry for him.

She held his wrist for a moment. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said. ‘I promise you that.’

Creed turned the jeep out into the midday traffic and headed west.

Grin stood at the top of the stairway and let out a piteous yowl. Holding out a friendly hand towards the cat, Creed carefully climbed the stairs, muscles all over his body hurting with the effort.

‘Hey, Grin, you okay, feller? It’s been a rough coupla days for both of us. Let’s have a look at you.’

The cat backed away several steps.

‘Come on, it’s me. I’ll get the bastards who nailed your tail, don’t worry. Nobody fucks with us, right?’

Grin came forward and took cautious sniffs at Creed’s hand. The photographer sat down on the top step and settled the cat in his lap so that he could examine her injured tail. It was caked with dried blood and seemed to have developed a peculiar kink. ‘I think you’re okay, pal. You were never the handsomest of mogs anyway, so this won’t make a whole lot of difference.’ He stroked her fur and when Cally joined him on the stairs she noticed his eyes were watery.

‘If they’ve done anything to Sam . . .’ he said fiercely.

Grin left him, sensing his anger.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Cally said.

‘I could use one.’ His rage was suddenly spent; his body sagged.

She stepped over him, going through to the kitchen and opening the booze cupboard. She poured him a large brandy. He followed and sat at the table. ‘Seems like I’ve been through this scene already,’ he said tonelessly.

She gave him the drink. ‘Let’s go into the bathroom where I can clean you up a bit.’

‘I want you to talk.’

‘I’ll do that while I clean you.’

He took a sip of brandy. ‘I need a cigarette,’ he said. ‘Not one of your doctored ones though.’ Reaching into his breast pocket, he drew out a crushed roll-up. With difficulty he smoothed it into a smokable shape. He lit it and rose from the table, shrugging off his coat and taking the brandy glass with him into the hallway. Cally followed him into the bathroom.

‘D’you mind? I gotta take a leak first.’ He closed the door on her.

The cat watched her from the kitchen doorway and she returned its stare. Grin ducked back out of sight. Cally heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door opened again.

‘I look a mess,’ said Creed.

Cally nodded. ‘No real harm done though.’

‘You wanna bet.’ He let her in, sitting down on the edge of the bath so that she could get to the basin.

She looked into the mirror and scowled at herself. ‘I don’t look too good myself.’

‘Only dirt. I’m the walking wounded.’

She ran water over a flannel, then wiped his face. ‘I think you’d better try yourself. You’re filthy.’ She filled the basin with warm water and offered him the soap. Creed dumped his half-smoked cigarette into the toilet bowl and took off his sweatshirt. He washed himself, then ran cold water over his face, holding the flannel against his eyes and forehead for long seconds.

‘Do you have any iodine?’ she asked.

He shook his head and winced as she touched one of the cuts with a dry towel. ‘Probably some TCP in the cabinet there. Take it easy, will you?’

‘Cotton wool?’

‘No.’

‘We’ll make do with this.’

While Creed pulled on his sweatshirt again, Cally took the disinfectant from the bathroom cabinet and dampened a small section of towel with it. She dabbed at his cuts. ‘Hold still, don’t be such a baby,’ she scolded.

He mumbled something she didn’t catch and shifted his position on the bath as though uncomfortable. None of the wounds were deep, nor were there any glass fragments embedded. ‘You’ll live,’ she assured him.

‘I suppose I should be grateful you pulled me back from the brink.’ He didn’t look at all grateful. ‘It was a long drop.’

‘I’m glad I got there in time.’

His mouth was tight with resentment. ‘I said I
suppose
I should be grateful. The fact is, you’re involved in this. I don’t know what you’re up to, what you are to those weirdos, but I figure it’s time to find out.’ He held her arms, their bodies close in the narrow bathroom.