Demon's Door

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This first world edition published 2010

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2010 by Graham Masterton.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Masterton, Graham.

Demon's door. – (Jim Rook series)

1. Rook, Jim (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. English teachers–Fiction. 3. Psychics–Fiction. 4. Suicide victims–Fiction. 5. Korean students–Fiction. 6. Supernatural–Fiction. 7. Horror tales.

I. Title II. Series

823.9′14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0059-3   (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6477-2   (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-275-8   (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

ONE

H
e tried to shut the front door really quickly so that Tibbles wouldn't escape, but as usual Tibbles was much too nimble for him and fled through the gap like a shadow.

Jim stood at one end of the landing, holding out both hands as if he were appealing to some bolshy teenage son not to leave home. Tibbles sat at the opposite end, amongst the geranium pots, watching him with slitted eyes.

‘OK, you feline retard, what are you going to do now?' Jim demanded. ‘What day is it, durr-brain? Didn't I tell you fifty-eight times already that fall semester starts today, so what does that mean? That's right, I'll be teaching, won't I, so I won't be here to let you back inside, will I? And after about fifteen minutes you're suddenly going to start feeling hungry and thirsty, aren't you, and you're going to start licking your lips and thinking about that juicy Instinctive Choice shrimp dinner that you only half-finished, and that saucer of delicious creamy milk that you only had two laps of, and you're going to jump up on the window sill and go
miaow, miaow, purr-lease let me in, o great and worshipful master
, and guess what?'

Tibbles haughtily turned his head away, as if he was above all this kind of cheap sarcasm. A yellow butterfly flickered past him, close enough for him to have swiped it, if he had wanted to, and usually he would have, but this morning he remained aloof.

Jim said, ‘Tibbles, you bozo, I'll give you one last chance. Look – watch – I'm unlocking the door. I'm opening it up for you. If you're really, really quick on your feet, you'll be able to get back inside before I close it again.'

He opened the door. He waited. Tibbles stayed where he was, at the far end of the landing, and yawned.

‘I'll give you till a count of three. One . . . two . . . three. Three and a half. Three and three quarters. Three and eighty-seven eighty-eighths.'

Tibbles sat down now, and tucked in his paws.

‘OK, have it your way,' said Jim. ‘If you want to spend the whole day wandering around outside, licking out other people's empty tuna cans and drinking water from lawn sprinklers, that's entirely up to you. You'll regret it.'

He closed the door and ostentatiously double-locked it, as if Tibbles could have managed to unlock it, even if he had been given a key.

‘There! I'll see you at seven, or maybe later, if there's a faculty meeting, or if I feel like going to the Cat'n'Fiddle for a drink or three.'

He picked up his worn-out brown canvas bag and went down the steps. Halfway down he turned around and raised his eyebrows at Tibbles one last time, but Tibbles ignored him.
Jesus
, he thought.
If cats could only get their paws into the holes in scissor handles, they would cut their little pink noses off, just to spite their goddamned faces
.

As he walked along the next landing, the door to Apartment 2 opened up, and Summer came out. Summer was a shiny young blonde, stunningly pretty, with huge blue eyes and a little snub nose and naturally pouting lips. This morning she was wearing a tiny strapless top in strawberry pink and very tight white shorts and a pair of pink wedge-shaped sandals to match her top. She had a diamond stud in her left nostril and she always wore at least half-a-dozen jangly bracelets on each wrist. She smelled strongly of some flowery, musky perfume, like J Lo Glow.

‘
Jimmy!
' she cooed. ‘Where are
you
off to so bright and early?'

‘Hi, Summer.' He had given up trying to persuade her to call him ‘Jim.' At least she didn't say ‘
Hi
Jimmy-wimmy!' any longer, like she did when he first moved in.

‘First day back to college,' he told her. ‘Another year, another fifteen antisocial illiterates.'

‘Hey –
I'm
starting a new job, too. It's really good money, and the tips are supposed to be fantastic. I'm pole dancing at Le Pothole.'

‘Le
What
? Le Pothole?'

‘That's right,' she smiled. ‘It's this new club that just opened, on Cahuenga. It's
such
a ritzy place. You have to come see me. I could wangle you a pass.'

Jim frowned. ‘Hey . . . I think I read an article about it a couple of weeks back . . . Le
Poteau.
“Poteau” – that's French for “pole.”'

‘Pothole, Poteau, whatever. You should still come see me. You never saw me pole dance, did you? Kiefer Sutherland said I must be fourble-jointed. Well, he looked like Kiefer Sutherland. That was when I was dancing in the VIP Club at Xes.'

‘I never knew you danced at Xes. Mind you, I never went there, so it's not surprising.'

‘Oh, yes! But Le Pothole is so much more lavisher. Like, the music is
ur
-mazing! And they mix this frozen mango margarita! It's like your lips have died and gone to heaven without you. And you should see my costume! It's this tiny little thong, all gold and glittery, but I have this incredible headdress with all these huge gold feathers. I look like Big Bird, but practically naked.'

‘Wow,' said Jim. ‘I'll try to drop by.' He could just imagine himself sitting in the front row, grinning like somebody's half-witted uncle, while Summer slowly counter-rotated her booty in his face. He wondered if there was any accepted etiquette for pushing a twenty-dollar bill into your downstairs neighbor's thong.

‘So, uh, where are you headed now?' he asked her.

‘Claws, to have my nails done. I'm starting tomorrow evening. Eight o'clock –
eek
! And I have to look perfect. That's what Mr Subinski said. “Summer,” he said, “you have to look
perfect
.”' She suddenly frowned, hefted up her breasts in both hands, and said, ‘You don't think I need a boob job, do you? Maybe I should go up a cup.'

Jim shook his head. ‘Oh, no. I think the good Lord has been very magnanimous to you already. In fact, more than magnanimous.' He looked up to the sky and said, ‘Thank you, Lord.'

Summer gave one of her squittery little giggles and locked her front door. Jim followed her down the last flight of steps to the steeply angled driveway. ‘Jimmy – you have a fantastic day at college,' she told him, and blew him a kiss.

‘I'll try. To tell you the truth I'm dreading it. Maybe we should swap places. I never had a manicure before.'

‘I'm having a Brazilian, too.'

‘Oh. In that case . . . I think it's back to the classroom.'

She climbed into her bright yellow VW Beetle and put the top down. He waited until she had backed out of the driveway and into Briarcliff Road, and tooted her horn, and waved, and then he opened the door of his ageing metallic-green Mercury Marquis and eased himself into the driver's seat. It was only 8:25 in the morning, but the interior of the car was already uncomfortably stuffy and hot, and the green vinyl seats were sticky. He switched on the engine and adjusted the air-conditioning to Freeze Your Face Off.

While the car gradually cooled down, he lowered the sun-vizor and looked at himself in the vanity mirror. He thought that he had aged exponentially in the past five months. After his last birthday, his thirty-fifth, he had still felt young – or youngish, anyhow. Handsome in a scruffy, beaten-up way, with two days' stubble and one collar button missing from his button-down collar. Now, however, he definitely looked exhausted, and he
felt
exhausted, too. His eyes were puffy and he could see the treacherous gleam of silver through the ratty brown.

Maybe he had been teaching a year too long. Maybe he should have taken a sabbatical. He should have gone to Europe and wandered around the British Museum in London, and the Musée d'Orsay in Paris, and the Prado in Madrid. He should have climbed the Acropolis, and looked out over the orange-tiled rooftops of Athens.

He should have sat in St Mark's Square in Venice, with a glass of Barolo, listening to the tolling of church bells and watching the pigeons burst into the sky like shrapnel.

But in spite of his tiredness he had an unaccountable premonition that he was going to be needed at West Grove College this semester, more than ever. It was like feeling that he was coming down with the swine flu. No definite symptoms yet, but something was out of kilter. All through the summer vacation, he had been convinced that he was being given signals, and hints, and coded messages. It was hard to describe, but he had caught random snatches of conversation in bars, and on the street, and out on the beach, and they all sounded like fragments of the same conversation.

One evening, about six weeks ago, when he was drinking with his friend Nils Shapiro in the Blu Monkey Lounge, he had overheard a girl saying, ‘shot himself in the head – just like Mia Farrow's brother, you know – like he couldn't face living any longer . . .' Then, only three days later, in the 8 Oz Burger Bar, a teenage boy at the next table had been telling his friend, ‘they found him in the lake – right in the middle – with all of his clothes on – even his sneakers – and he had
rocks
in his pockets.' And early yesterday evening, when he was shopping at Ralph's, his packer had said to the check-out girl, ‘stepped off the sidewalk – right in front of a four-one-three bus – driver stood on the brakes but he didn't have a hope in hell . . .'