The Tower

  The Tower

  SIMON CLARK

  Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Sounds off …

  This was recorded fifteen years ago:

  Did you hear that? Can you hear the noise? A kind of hiss … in and out, in and out … almost the sound of someone breathing. Only it’s different; like …

  No. It’s gone again. Yeah, but you’re like that, aren’t you, House? You big old ugly pile of rock. First it’s the sounds, you bang all the doors, and then it’s the clock chimes. You’re inventive with those, aren’t you? But I’m not letting you get the better of me. I’m staying. Did you hear that, House? I’m staying. So, go on! Do your worst!

  You’re right. I should have kept my mouth shut. You should never goad anyone to do their worst. Not a drunk in a bar. Not a policeman. Not God. Not even this damned house. Because, the moment you make that challenge – go on, do your worst – that’s exactly what they do. And sometimes it can be far worse than you imagine. Rather than sitting here, shouting futile threats at the walls, I should be explaining what happened to me over the last three days.

  OK, so I’ll take it from the top. My name is Chris Blaxton. I’m twenty-three years old. I’m sitting here alone in a house called The Tower. And here I am in what was once an elegant ballroom with windows looking out over a garden that’s now grown into this wild, wild jungle. Not that I can see much of it. It’s night-time. And, yeah, dear God this is the worse part – when it grows dark. All dark and black and hidden, and the place is swamped by shadows that just ooze through the rooms like they’re alive.

  Enough. Once you begin brooding about how alone you are in this place, and visualize what it’s like in all those empty rooms your imagination starts to eat you alive. Right. I’m sitting at a table that’s big enough to seat twenty people. The tape deck is in front of me, the mic’s in my hand. I’m going to make this record of what I did just in case I never get chance to tell you in person. Three nights ago I left video cameras running in the ballroom, with more in The Promenade and at the foot of the main stairs. What I saw on the tapes when I played them back was enough to … well … what I saw is going to be the starting point for this … document? Testament? Diary?

  Oh? And didn’t I tell you I’m now alone in the house? I did, didn’t I?

  I thought I was. But what you believe and what is true isn’t always necessarily one and the same thing. There! Listen! I don’t know if you heard that … I’m sure there’s someone walking along the corridor to the ballroom. So … what do you do at a time like this? Run like hell and not look back? Or open the door? See who it is?

  But this is The Tower. A house where its occupants don’t always wear a human face.

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘Go straight over it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s dead, it—’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘—won’t feel a thing.’

  ‘Fabian, no way in a million years will I ever drive over that dog.’

  ‘Deceased. A lifeless cadaver.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘If you don’t scoot now we’ll miss the ferry.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Miss that and we’ll end up sleeping in this turd on wheels.’

  ‘Hey? You ungrateful—’

  ‘Drive over the bloody dog or we’ll miss the bloody ferry.’

  Ding, dong, ding dong. Josanne and Fabian had been clashing with one another ever since London.

  ‘Drive.’

  ‘No.’

  Fabian sat in the back seat like an English lord. Then he did claim to have aristocratic blood. He was twenty-three, played keyboards, wrote songs, but he acted like he was sixty-three. His blond fringe hung down in a soft hank that all but covered one blue eye. Josanne turned in the driving seat to glare back at him. Her oval face with normally flawless olive skin had been fired up with red blotches. Luckily, she only had the steering wheel to hold. If it had been magically exchanged for a gun she would have shot him. Bloody hell, she would have emptied the magazine into Fabian’s arrogant face. That’s true love for you.

  These thoughts poured easily through John Fisher’s head. There’d never been any question of him sharing the driving. Despite the grievous state of the car Josanne loved it. She wouldn’t let anyone behind the wheel. ‘It’s a one-woman car,’ she insisted when he’d offered. So, he’d allowed himself three pints of Guinness at the pub. A warm glow surrounded him. For a while he was content to let the argument flow over him. Beer is Teflon coating for the nerves. Josanne’s fiery temperament, Fabian’s cool sarcasm – they all slid off John Fisher’s sense of well-being without sticking. Until the last hour of the five-hour journey, that is.

  Now, check this out. Darkness. Pouring rain. Muddy fields. Narrow lane. Last ferry leaving in fifteen minutes. Dead dog in road. Suddenly this couple’s duel of tongues was beginning to stick in his craw.

  Fabian declaimed, ‘We miss the ferry and we can kiss the job goodbye.’

  ‘What? Who the hell are they going to get to house-sit for peanuts? Call that a job?’

  ‘Josanne, drive over the bloody dog. If any of its guts stick to your blessed car, Fisher here will clean them off for you.’

  ‘How do we know it’s dead?’

  ‘Just look at the thing. It’s not moved a bloody hair in the last ten minutes we’ve been sitting here.’

  ‘It might just be hurt.’

  ‘Would you lie in the rain all night if you were still in the land of the living?’

  ‘I’m not driving the car over it.’

  ‘Go round, then.’

  ‘Have you looked out of the window, Fabian? Have you seen how narrow the road is?’

  Fisher’s glow of well-being might as well have been a tiny defeated figure with a suitcase the way it shuffled out of the car to disappear into the rain-sodden night. He groaned.

  ‘Listen to that, Josanne. You’ve made Fisher unhappy now.’

  ‘If he thinks I’m going to crush a poor dog lying in the road he’s got another think coming.’

  Fisher began to speak but Fabian rode over his words in that cool, lordly way of his. ‘Trust me, Josanne. Pooch is in doggy heaven with all his canine ancestors. Now, hurry along before someone rams into the back of us, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘The road’s deserted, Fabian. We haven’t seen any traffic in the last half an hour. We’re in the middle of a place called Nowhere.’

  ‘Then no one’s going to see you flatten Fido.’

  ‘Didn’t
you hear me, Fabian? I’m not driving—’

  ‘OK!’ Fisher couldn’t take anymore. ‘I’ll move the dog.’ He opened the passenger door. ‘Put the headlights on full so I can see.’

  Josanne clutched his arm as he started to climb out. ‘I know it’s dead … but you’ll treat it with respect, won’t you?’

  Fabian smiled. ‘You’ll lay it to rest with a twenty-one gun salute and a touching eulogy, won’t you, old boy.’

  ‘Fabian. Drop dead.’

  ‘Quickly now, Fisher. You’re letting the wet in.’

  The rain didn’t fall in drops: it fell in chunks of ice-cold water. It rolled down Fisher’s neck. He could barely see ten paces ahead of him. It even obscured the animal in spray as the rain burst against the road. He hunched his shoulders in the forlorn hope it would stem the rush of cold water through his shirt collar to soak his back. The car’s headlights blazed their light into this silver cascade. Probably Josanne couldn’t even see him now. Grimly, he told himself: Just grab the dog by the leg, drag it into the ditch, then get down to the river before the last ferry goes.

  This morning he’d been spinning a fantasy of spending the next month rehearsing their music in a picturesque manor house in the tranquil English countryside. He saw himself strolling around the garden to admire the blossom appearing on the trees. Not this. Not lumbering like the Hunchback of Notre Dame through the rain to haul a dog that’s probably mangled to hell and back into the bushes, just so he can return to the car and listen to Josanne and Fabian bicker again.

  Fisher muttered, ‘Where art thou, patron saint of bass players?’ Then answered sourly, ‘Probably being crapped on by the patron saint of lead vocalists.’ Fisher moved forward through the rain. Ahead, bathed in water droplets that were illuminated by the car’s headlights he saw the dark mound that was the dog. It lay on its side, its legs straight. The black button of a nose glistened. Its eyes were closed – something that Fisher was grateful for. He didn’t relish having to meet the corpse’s blank stare as he dragged it by its leg off the road and into the grass to rot.

  Even so, he felt a stir of sympathy. ‘Poor devil. Who left you out here all alone, eh?’

  The words were intended to prepare himself for seizing a wet hind limb. Only the moment he finished speaking, the dog’s head jerked up, its eyelids lifted and Fisher found himself meeting the amber gaze of the dog. Its eyes were drowsy rather than pained.

  Fisher paused. If I grab it now it’ll probably chew a lump out of my arm. Funny place to go to sleep, though.

  He clicked his tongue. ‘Come on, boy. Off the road. You’ll get hurt if you stay here … Great, I’m explaining road safety to a dog at ten o’clock at night in freezing rain.’ He raised his voice. ‘Move. Come on, boy. Move.’ He waved his arm to reinforce the command. The dog stared at him with those placid, drowsy eyes. ‘Oh, hell. You’re not going to move, are you? What are you doing? Waiting for someone? Standing guard?’ He shook his head. ‘Hell. Now I’m interrogating it.’ He gestured again in the forlorn hope the dog would move of its own accord. The dog simply lay there with its head raised while it looked Fisher in the face. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ He clicked his tongue in exasperation. ‘Damn silly question. It’s not going to answer you, is it?’

  ‘Fisher? Hey, Fisher?’

  Fisher glanced back. Fabian had stuck his head through the passenger window. He shielded that neatly groomed blond hair against the rain with a magazine. ‘Hey, Fisher. What’s the bloody hold up? Dump the mutt, then get back in the car. We’ve only five minutes before the damn ferry goes.’

  Fisher held up a finger. ‘Just give me a minute. OK?’

  ‘I was only joking about the eulogy, you know?’

  Fisher turned his back on Fabian. ‘OK,’ he told the dog gently. ‘I’m going to pick you up. It’s for your own good. You’re not going to bite me, are you?’

  The dog didn’t react to his words. It simply stared; its amber eyes glowing in the headlights. Fisher checked the dog over. It was a medium-sized mongrel with jet–black fur. If anything, with its long pointed face, it resembled the jackal statues that guarded the tombs of the pharaohs. It didn’t appear to be injured in any way. Maybe this really was its home territory that it was guarding. Not that there were any houses Fisher could see. There was nothing but flat agricultural land for miles around.

  ‘Of course you’re going to bite me,’ Fisher grunted, as he squatted beside it. ‘Who wouldn’t bite me if I picked them up and carried them around?’

  Now he was too wet to bother about the rain trickling down his back. Making soothing noises, he extended his hands in a way that he hoped was non-threatening, then gently scooped the dog up into his arms. It wasn’t that heavy. Through the wet fur he could feel the movement of its bones as he lifted. The dog didn’t so much as grunt. It simply continued to gaze into his face with drowsy eyes. A moment later Fisher set the dog down on the grass bank at the side of the road.

  From the car Fabian shouted, ‘At last! Now get yourself back here before we miss the ferry.’

  Fisher ran back to the car. Behind the splashing wipers he could see Josanne. She’d watched him anxiously as he moved the dog. Somewhere in the back seat Fabian would be impatiently drumming his fingers. Ferry, ferry, ferry; that’d be the refrain of his commentary. At the car door, Fisher looked back. The dog still lay where he’d left it. For a moment it gazed at him, making eye contact. A moment later it lowered its head on to the grass.

  I thought you were going to help me, but you’re abandoning me, too.

  Fisher hissed, ‘The dog isn’t thinking that. You’re only imagining what’s going through its mind. It probably lives here. Lying in the road is probably what it does. There’s no law against owning an eccentric dog.’ He opened the door.

  Fabian sang out, ‘At last. Thought you were holding a full funeral service for the animal, old boy. What are you dawdling for? Jump in.’

  Josanne leaned across so she could make eye contact. ‘You did treat it with respect, didn’t you? I’d hate to think you just—’

  ‘It’s alive.’ Fisher jerked his head back. ‘It doesn’t look hurt.’

  Fabian shrugged. ‘Well, now everyone’s happy, let’s go.’

  Fisher shook his head so firmly, water flew from his soaked fringe. ‘I’m not leaving it here.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, Fisher. Leave the damn thing.’

  ‘No, Fabian. I’m not going to argue. I’m taking the dog.’

  ‘Fisher—’

  Josanne rounded on Fabian. ‘We can’t leave it here. Do you want it to die?’

  ‘I want to catch the bloody ferry. Who gives a damn about some stupid dog?’

  ‘We do.’ She opened her door. ‘Fisher, I’ll give you a hand.’

  Seconds later they both crouched beside the dog. Once more it had raised its head to look at them.

  Fisher examined the wet bundle of fur more closely. There was no visible sign of injury but now he wondered if it was sick. ‘I’m not leaving it here,’ he said, with feeling. ‘It won’t survive the night.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll wring Fabian’s neck if he complains again.’

  ‘I’ll pick him up. Can you open the back passenger door for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The rain beat down harder. Once they’d moved to the side of the road the car’s lights didn’t illuminate the ground, so Fisher found himself moving blindly with the dog in his arms. When he reached the car he saw a figure standing beside it.

  ‘Fabian? Don’t try and talk me out of it. I’m bringing the dog with us.’

  ‘I know you are, you sentimental idiot.’ He opened the door. ‘Here, wrap it in this.’

  Fisher looked up at Fabian. The man’s blond hair formed a slick cap against his head as the rain soaked it through.

  ‘That’s your bath towel, Fabian. The dog’s covered in mud.’

  ‘So, I’ll let you buy me another.’ Fabian smiled. ‘Now get yourself, and your furry friend,
into the car where it’s warm and dry.’

  CHAPTER 2

  The patron saint of bass guitarists sprinkles what crumbs he can. Fisher opened the window as Josanne pulled up at the jetty. Moored there was the ferry; it was still boarding vehicles.

  ‘We’re in luck. It must have been held up.’ Josanne cranked her window down, too. The rain had stopped but the cold night air gusted freely through the car.

  ‘Can you at least shut one of the windows?’ Fabian complained. ‘It’s cold as Siberia in the back here. I’m sure the heater isn’t working.’

  ‘We’ve made the ferry,’ she retorted. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

  ‘Ecstatic. But my hairy friend and I are freezing.’

  ‘There’s no pleasing some people,’ she muttered under her breath. The ticket seller came forward so she was diverted away from an argument with Fabian to asking the price of the crossing.

  Fisher looked back at the dog curled up on the back seat. Only the top of its head and eyes were visible in Fabian’s luxuriously soft towel.

  ‘Don’t worry, old boy. Jak and I are the best of friends. We’re looking after one another back here.’

  ‘Jak? Is that what you’ve decided to call him?’

  ‘The only thing I’ve decided is to hand him in to the police at the earliest opportunity.’ Fabian pushed his damp fringe out of his eyes with distaste. ‘And, no, I’ve not been getting all sentimental over our friend here. He’s wearing a collar with the name Jak printed on it. Ergo, this is Jak the dog. My God, I hope there’ll be hot water where we’re going. I need a good long soak.’

  Fisher shook his head. Most of the time you entertain satisfying thoughts of socking Fabian on the jaw; then, every so often, like when he wrapped the dog in his towel, he displayed a tender side to his nature that left you disarmed. It won’t last though, Fisher told himself, as Josanne inched the car forward up the ramp on to the ferry. Soon you find yourself thinking murderous thoughts about him.

  ‘My God,’ Fabian intoned from the back. ‘Look at this boat. It’s nothing more than oil drums lashed to a frame.’