Cry for Help

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Orion Books,
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House, 5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane
London WC2H 9EA

An Hachette Livre UK Company

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

The moral right of Steve Mosby to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
prior permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and
any resemblance to actual persons living or dead
is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 4091 0565 7

Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,
Lymington, Hants

Printed in Great Britain at Mackays of Chatham plc,
Chatham, Kent

The Orion Publishing Group's policy is to use papers that
are natural, renewable and recyclable products and
made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging
and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to
the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

www.orionbooks.co.uk

For Lynn

Acknowledgements

Huge thanks to my agent, Carolyn Whitaker, and to everyone at Orion who helped with this book and the others, especially Jon Wood, Genevieve Pegg and Jade Chandler, who all have infinite patience. More personal thanks go to the usual people: Ang, J, Keleigh, Rich, Neil, Helen, Gillian, Roger, Ben, Megan, Cass and Mark. To Mum, Dad, John and Roy. Extra thanks this time to Becki and Rainy, and extra special thanks to Emma Lindley. Most of all, thanks to Lynn, for putting up with me during the long work on this one, and for being wonderful.

Prologue

'Get out of the way!'

Roger Ellis didn't stop running as he collided with the group of drunk kids. His shoulder caught the nearest, knocking him into his friends. One of them shouted something, but Roger was away by then, already dodging around the next bunch.

It was chucking-out time in the city and the pavements were crammed with people. Girls in tiny dresses were shivering and stumbling, hugging themselves as they tapped awkwardly along; lads were remonstrating with bouncers, or each other, or else leaning into taxis and haggling over prices. The ground was painted in cast-off, primary-coloured neon from the club overhangs, and the subdued thump of music from inside was punctuated by regular bellowing and cat-calls from across the street.

Roger had been a part of all this until a few minutes ago. Now it was all simply an obstacle.

He angled between another two groups as he rounded a corner - then smacked head first into a young guy in a white T-shirt, sending him sprawling against a railing. Roger stopped for a second, dazed, and saw a girl wide-eyed with shock--

'Hey!'

--and then he was running again, avoiding the man's friends as they stepped towards him from one side, and slipping past the outstretched paw of a bouncer who tried to grab him. Feet began pounding after him. But Roger was always going to be faster, and the sounds of the pursuit quickly faded away behind, until all he could hear was the sound of his own shoes, slapping hard against the pavement.

Ten years ago, at the age of nineteen, Roger had been one of the top young decathletes in the country. He didn't compete anymore, but he trained teenagers who did. Nobody was going to catch him - especially not someone reeling with drink.

He sped up: his legs stretched out and the streets flashed past, the night air roaring in his ears above the steady thump of his heartbeat. At this time of night it was quicker to run than fight his way to a taxi that would, in turn, have to fight its way out through the streets.

But as fast as Roger could run, it wasn't fast enough. He didn't know what was wrong, but he knew it was something, and he had a terrible feeling he was already too late.

He took another corner, heading away from the centre, and ran out into the criss-cross of junctions where the ring road scarred the edge of the city. Headlights blinded him; he heard tyres screech, a horn blaring. Someone shouted. Roger ignored it, concentrating on the street bobbing up and down towards him. Left into the industrial estate. The footpath at the end was a fairly dubious shortcut in the dark, but he took it anyway.

The whole time, his mind kept coming back to something Karli had said a couple of weeks ago.

You never really talk to anyone on the phone.

And the conversation had actually been about her - his ex-girlfriend, Alison. Roger had mentioned he hadn't spoken to her for a while, trying to make Karli jealous for some petty reason he now couldn't recall. But she hadn't taken the bait. Instead, she'd told him that: you never really talk to anyone on the phone, anyway. At first, Roger had thought she meant him specifically - criticising his manners - but she meant in general.

It sounds like them, she explained. But it isn't. It's just a computer interpreting information and doing an impression of their voice.

She'd sounded disappointed - as though reflecting that you didn't even get a real person lying to you and letting you down. So perhaps she'd taken the bait after all, and was just more intelligent than him. Whatever her reasoning, Roger had shut up about Alison.

Now, running down the footpath, he thought again about the phone call he'd just received. The number that appeared on the display had been Alison's home number, and when he'd answered it he'd heard an approximation of her voice. But it wasn't her. The person he remembered was full of enthusiasm and laughter and hope; the voice on the phone had been flat and lifeless. Help me. There wasn't any fear there. It sounded like she was huddled up in the corner of an empty room, whispering the words to keep ghosts away, but knowing there was nobody in the world who could hear her anymore.

Help me.

Then a pause, filled with a sound like rushing wind.

Help me.

No matter what he said, she simply kept repeating it. A few seconds later, Roger had hung up and started running.

At 3.15 a.m., he jogged to a stop outside Alison's house, then leaned down on his knees and took deep, professional breaths.

Like all the buildings on the street, hers was dark and silent. This was a quiet residential area, just outside the centre. Nobody was up at this time. Cars in shadowed driveways had been draped with dark cloth for the night, and the houses behind slept along with their owners. The only sound was the lonely hum of the streetlights. After he'd caught his breath, Roger looked up to see a solitary moth fluttering soundlessly against the nearest. It felt like the only other living thing for miles.

He walked up the short path to her house and was about to knock, but hesitated. Suddenly he felt unsure about being here. Thinking back, he could no longer explain the effect the phone call had on him, beyond that it had made his hairs stand on end. It reminded him of those tapes of static you heard on ghost documentaries, where the random, scratchy noise suddenly created an old man's laugh. Help me, she'd told him, but from her tone of voice it was already too late.

A breeze picked up. Behind him, hedges rustled.

Roger shivered. Then knocked.

The door moved away from his knuckles. Open a notch, it creaked back now to reveal a sliver of night-time kitchen. He listened.

Heard . . .

Something.

Roger pushed the door wider and stepped inside, and the sound resolved itself. It was the buzz of flies, moving through the kitchen, whining towards him and then away. He flicked on the light and saw what they were interested in. The room was filthy. A few old plates rested on the counter, pasta sauce dried and cracked on them like old skin, and small white dots of mould peppering the creases. Another plate edged out of the full sink like a pale fin. There was a web of mist on the water around it.

Jesus, the smell . . .

'Alison?'

The dark house soaked up the sound and gave nothing back.

He went through to the living room and searched quickly for the light switch. The dark felt too ominous, as though someone might be standing in a corner, watching him. The lounge, at least, was empty. And cleaner than the kitchen, too.

But too cold, he realised. Like the heating hadn't been on in days.

The wooden staircase was built into the edge of the living room, and he moved up it cautiously, keeping an eye on the gloomy landing above. Shivering slightly, he recognised the same adrenalin that he used to get before races. Again, he was sure that something was wrong. Alison had called him from here, but you could tell an empty house when you walked into one, and this place seemed more than empty. It felt abandoned.

On the landing, the smell hit him properly. He pushed her bedroom door open.

Roger stared at the bed in shock, his mind refusing to accept what he was seeing. It couldn't be. The thing that was lying there . . . it looked like Alison - but that was impossible because . . .

His mobile started ringing.

For a few numb seconds, he let it. Then he took it out of his jacket pocket, the screen glowing a soft green in the bedroom. Finally, he glanced down.

The Caller ID on the screen said:

[Alison Mobile]

Shaking now, Roger pressed the button and then held the phone to his ear, staring firmly at the object on the bed, which he knew deep down was his ex-girlfriend. For a moment, all he could hear through the phone was the rushing sound.

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