Bad Press (Part 3)

Corbett’s mind kicked into gear as if a switch had been thrown somewhere in his head, one moment he was in a deep dreamless state, and the next instant he was wide awake. Before he even opened his eyes he knew something was wrong, like most heavy drinkers Jack Corbett was no stranger to awakening to a feeling of extreme anxiety, but this was something different. Grey morning light illuminated a room that had long since fallen into neglect, and the air in the room was thick and cloying with a stench of musty dampness. He was lying on a four-poster bed and the covers beneath him were damp and mildewed, a vision of things crawling through the moldy covers galvanized him off the bed. The floorboards creaked alarmingly beneath his feet, and an image of the floor collapsing beneath him terrified him. Moving as carefully as possible he crossed the room and moved the decrepit lace curtain one side, a quiet square surrounded by impressive houses stood deserted in the early morning rain.

Keeping to the edge of the room Corbett moved carefully towards the closed door, with each step the anxiety that the floor beneath him could give way at any moment intensified. He had awoken in many strange surroundings over the years of heavy drinking, but this place had to top the list. How the hell he had gotten here was beyond him, his head felt muzzy but the usual signs of a bender were absent. His throat did not feel parched and the taste of stale booze was also absent. The hallway outside the room was festooned with what looked like a century of cobwebs, an open door on the landing led to a large bathroom. Corbett relieved the fullness in his bladder in the age-stained toilet bowl, and when he pulled the chain to flush, the water was stained with rust and for a moment his mind associated it with blood. Corbett cleaned the grime from the full-length mirror mounted on the wall and stared at his reflection.

The faint outline of bruising that had healed surrounded his eyes, and the scar of a recent cut followed the line of his right eyebrow in the direction of his temple. He had been in some kind of scrape lately, but the injuries were all but healed. It came as a shock to him to see how he was dressed; he was clad in an expensive suit that he was sure he would not have paid for. The handmade loafers on his feet were an extravagance he would not have invested in, even in his most successful days. This thought seemed to jog something loose in his memory, and a small voice echoed in his mind. “You are Jack Corbett and you were once a successful reporter.” The voice heralded a return of something that he had been missing; Corbett suddenly had a feeling of self-awareness, but how he had managed to lose this he could not say. He left the bathroom and carefully picked his way down the stairs, the steps beneath him groaned alarmingly with his weight. The bottom hallway looked forlorn with its once expensive wallpaper faded and peeling. The kitchen appeared to be the only room that was resisting the advancing dereliction that the rest of the house had suffered.

This whole experience was beginning to take its toll on him, and he sat on one of the dust-coated kitchen chairs. Unconsciously his hand reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and gold lighter, he had taken a few drags on the cigarette before a thought came to him. Corbett suddenly wondered when the hell he had started smoking again, as far as he could remember he had not smoked in over two years. Putting the cigarette out in the ashtray on the kitchen table, he noticed that some of the cigarette ends already there had lipstick on them. A vision of a blonde woman came to mind; he stopped and stared around the kitchen. Something was coming back to him, the memories were still disjointed but a name came to him, Sophia. The name coming to him triggered more hazy memories that he could not coherently connect, and it also brought on a wave of panic that galvanized him to his feet and out of the house. Something told him he had to get away from this decaying house, and he also knew that the woman called Sophia might be a threat to him.

The prim-looking woman at the bus stop eyed his expensive clothing with an incredulous expression, and Corbett found it necessary to explain again how he was mugged and had his wallet stolen. He could see she was far from convinced, and he treated her to a pleading smile. Eventually, she reached for her purse and dug out some coins, and handed them to him, before he could even thank her she had turned her back to him, signaling the fact that she wanted no more interaction with him. Thankfully the bus arrived moments later, and Corbett took a seat as far as possible from his reluctant benefactor. Corbett sat at the back of the bus staring out the window; his view was blurred by the rain running down the glass. It was this simple thing that started him remembering, he had gone to that square on a rainy morning to cover the story of a suicide. Slowly but surely his memories began to fall into place, but there were still blanks. Like what had taken place from the time he had left the bar, after speaking with Jones, and how he had ended up in that house wearing an expensive suit of clothes. Another thing that bothered him was the fact that his memory of the woman named Sophia was somewhat jumbled, one moment he had a clear image of a younger woman, and the next she was older.

The bus came to a halt in the city center and Corbett disembarked, he was still half a mile from where he had parked the car near the station, at least this was his last memory of being in the car. By the time he reached the beat-up old ford, he was wet through, and the rumbling in his stomach told him he had not eaten in a while. He found the spare key he always kept in a magnetic box on the inside of the back bumper, to his surprise the engine turned over the moment he turned the ignition key, and even though the needle indicated he was driving on empty he managed to make it back to the apartment. Parked outside the block of flats he felt the old familiar feeling of hopelessness, and it took an effort to get out of the car and enter the building. Once inside he felt even more dejected when he realized he would have to call Mabel for his spare key, he had a feeling that she was not his number one fan these days. Mabel was the only one to stand by him when he first hit rock bottom, she went from being a friendly neighbor to sometimes lover. But like everyone else she finally could not take his bullshit anymore, he had let her down once too often.

Corbett rang the doorbell and stepped back, it was taking all his willpower not to turn and run like a frightened child. Time seemed to drag on, however, he was reluctant to press the doorbell again, but he had little choice if he wanted to gain entrance to his flat. The moment his finger depressed the bell, the door opened and he jumped backward, half expecting a tirade of abuse. Mabel stood looking at him but instead of an expression of anger, she had a look of relief. “Jack, where the fuck have you been for the past few days?”  She stood back and beckoned him inside, before closing the door and bolting it. Corbett sat silently at the kitchen table and watched her preparing something to eat, the smell of bacon frying made his mouth water. The domestic simplicity of the moment suddenly brought a wave of nostalgia over him, and he longed to go back to the time when they were lovers. Mabel wore a silk wrap that just came to the top of her shapely thighs, and a vision of making love to her flashed briefly across his mind. But that ship had well and truly sailed, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Mabel watched him devour the food with a worried look on her face; he had wolfed back the food like a man that had been starved. Only when he sat back in his chair did she speak. “Jack, are you in some kind of trouble? Your flat was broken into last night, and a detective called Jones has been around looking for you. He told me to tell you to get in touch with him as soon as I see you.” Corbett paused to let this sink in, before reassuring her that everything was okay. By the look on her face, he knew she did not believe him, and for that matter, he did not believe himself. Corbett was inclined to tell Mabel what he could remember of the events that occurred over the recent past, but he knew that none of it would make sense. He did not think it would be possible to tell anyone what had gone on without sounding deranged, because in his mind none of it made any sense. He had been living with a woman that had suddenly gotten younger, in a house that changed overnight from being a luxurious townhouse to a derelict shell. Or for that matter that he had burgled a dead man’s house for this woman, and she had repaid him by drugging him and running off in the night.

Eventually, Corbett settled on a story that he knew Mabel would believe, he told her he had spent the past few days on a drunken bender with a woman that he had met in a bar. He told her how he had woken up in a cheap hotel, and that the woman and his wallet were gone. For the briefest of moments, a look of hurt clouded her eyes, and he hated himself. But just as soon as that look on her face had appeared, it disappeared to be replaced by something harder. The earlier expression of concern was gone now, and he knew he had outstayed his welcome. Mabel got up and busied herself clearing the dishes, Corbett desperately searched for something to say that might lighten the mood but had to settle for muttered thanks for the meal. He was at the door when she called him, for some reason he felt an irrational hope that everything was suddenly going to be okay with them. He turned to find her holding out the spare key to his flat, in the same hand she held a twenty-pound note. “I don’t want the money back Jack and you might find someone else to hold your spare key.”

Corbett stood dejected in the hallway staring at the door she had closed behind him, the subtle scent of her shampoo hung in the air. A brief image flashed across his mind of one of the nights of passion he had spent in her arms, and at that moment he felt more alone than he had ever felt before. It seemed that everything he had touched in life had turned to shit, and he realized the world was increasingly becoming a place he did not want to live in. If his mood was low at that moment, things were about to get worse. The lock on the front door of his flat was broken beyond repair, and the place was completely thrashed. Every piece of paper including the manuscript of a book he had been working on was dumped in the middle of the sitting room floor, and a strange bad smell seemed to hang in the air. The mattress had been pulled from the bed and slit with a knife down the edges, and none of this made sense. Anyone who took even the most cursory of looks inside his flat would immediately recognize that he had nothing worth stealing. Anything of any value had long since been sold, or like his typewriter ended up in the pawnshop.

Whoever had turned the place over had spent a lot of time searching for something, and the only thing that made sense was they had gotten the wrong address. Corbett suddenly felt drained of any energy, and he jammed a chair behind the door before putting the mattress back on the bed and lying down. Within a couple of minutes, he had fallen into a troubled sleep, a sleep tormented with strange visions of a blonde woman that turned into a monster. It was getting dusk outside when he woke, and he could smell the sweat from his armpits. The cushions had been thrown from the sofa, and he found some coins that he put in the electric meter. He needed a hot shower before he sat down and tried to make sense of what was going on, and he was suddenly craving a drink. In the shower, he traced the pattern of scratches on his body and the fading bite marks. His mind tried to summon up the memories of how he came by these marks, but the thoughts of that night suddenly made him feel nauseous. The thought of being intimate with the woman named Sophia made him feel soiled in some way, and he scrubbed his skin with soap until it was raw. There was something about the disjointed memories of that night that felt deeply disturbing as if in being intimate with that woman he had committed an abomination against nature.

 Corbett picked the suit jacket from the floor and studied the label; it was from a tailor he had not heard of with an address in Saville Row. The nearest he had ever come to a tailor in Saville Row, would have been when he staggered past their premises on his way back from some club or other. He could safely say that he had not visited that area of the city in quite a while; trips up that side had long since gone beyond his budget. What a suit of clothes like this cost he did not have a clue, but he could hazard a guess it was at least a couple of hundred quid. He knew at least one pawnshop that would advance him some funds against a fine suit like this. Taking a clothes hanger from the wardrobe and an old suit bag, he carefully laid out the suit to check for marks and go through the pockets. In the inside pocket of the jacket, he found the envelope, the tape that had held it to the bottom of the desk was still attached. He sat on the mattress and turned the envelope over in his hands, for some reason a part of him wanted to dispose of it without looking inside, while his reporter’s instinct screamed at him to open it.

The simple act of opening the envelope, an act he had performed countless times over his lifetime, proved more difficult than he would have imagined. For some reason, his hands began to shake and his fingers refused to cooperate, the memory of Jones’s parting words about forgetting all about Granger aka Sykes suddenly sounded loud in his mind. When he did finally get the envelope open, it turned out to be somewhat of an anti-climax. A single sheet of stationery containing a four-digit number, to which was taped a cheap-looking locker key, consisted of the entirety of the contents of the mysterious envelope. He was still sitting staring at the piece of paper when the phone rang, the sudden piercing ring made his heart skip a beat. “Hello, Corbett is that you, I have been trying to reach you for days.” Jones’s voice carried a tone of relief tinged with what Corbett thought might be fear. Something had the detective concerned and Jack had a feeling that it meant bad news for someone.

The Lame Duck was not a pub you would expect to find a detective socializing in unless he was working undercover. It was situated in a narrow alleyway that in a moment of grandeur someone deemed to be a street; a street light on either end of the narrow street did little to illuminate the area, and apart from the dull glow of the lights above the pub door the area was in darkness. The inside of the pub was every bit as decrepit as the dingy exterior; the ancient carpet stank of cheap disinfectant, which did little to mask the stench of stale beer and vomit. Lamps dotted around the interior were all fitted with low wattage bulbs, and most of the floor space was lost in shadow. Corbett stood just inside the door waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, a surly heavily tattooed man sat behind the bar leafing through a magazine, while three men that were seated at a table near the corner of the bar eyed Corbett with suspicion.

His first instinct was to turn on his heel and leave; perhaps he had misheard Jones when he told him the name of the pub. But just as he put his hand on the door handle, Jones called to him from an alcove lost in shadow. “Over here Corbett, I have a drink for you”. Jones sat in the corner of the alcove, his features completely lost in the shadows. A hand reached out of the shadows and pushed a whiskey glass towards Corbett, the hand was wrapped tightly in a white bandage. Jones lit a cigarette and it was the first time Corbett got a look at his face since entering the pub; the detective looked like death warmed up. His face had a deathly pallor that was accentuated by the three-day stubble on his cheeks, but it was his eyes that were most startling. They were sunken back in his head as if he had not slept in days, and they had a haunted look about them. Corbett sipped the whiskey and waited for Jones to speak, the detective sat in silence for a long time as if gathering his thoughts. When he did speak it sounded as if he scarcely believed his own words.

“Things started getting very strange after you came to the station asking about Maurice Granger, I was summoned to the superintendent’s office and given the third degree regarding our relationship. I was left under no illusion that any further questions about Granger’s death, would earn me a reprimand. I was also informed that any further contact from you was to be reported to higher authorities, but the strangest thing was that I had the feeling that I was constantly under surveillance. I always resented being treated like a moron, so I called in a few favors at the coroner’s office. It turns out there are two separate reports on the cause of Mr. Granger’s demise, the official one is a clear-cut case of death by suicide. The one I was told about says there was clear evidence of torture before death. Last night I had a caller to my flat, a tall thin guy that looked like he stepped out of the past.”

Jones’s held up the bandaged hand and stared at it as if he could not believe what he was looking at. “There was something not quite right about that guy; he had a bad smell on him. If you asked me he smelled of death, and here is the thing. He was looking for you, and he held my hand over the cooker until he was sure I did not know where you were. I have never come across anyone as strong as that guy, I can handle myself and he overpowered me as if I were a rag doll. I must have passed out and when I came around he was gone, but I swear the smell of him is still in my flat.” Jones finished his story and they lapsed into silence, the detective was trying to make sense of what had taken place. While Corbett weighed up his options, the sheet of paper and the key were in his coat pocket but he had to decide whether he trusted Jones. But in reality, he knew he had little choice, there was no one else to turn to, and he was beginning to get very scared indeed.    

Bad Press (Part 2)

The darkness surrounding him was all-encompassing and suffocating, it was as if his eyes had been either glued shut or plucked from their sockets. Part of his mind screamed that he needed to flee but the darkness had a paralyzing quality that rendered any movement impossible. Somewhere out there in the darkness, he could hear a faint beeping sound that his mind could not identify. The fear inside him galvanized his mind to concentrate on finding his way out of this abyss, with great effort he lifted his arm to feel his way forward, and sharp pain in his rib suddenly brought a yelp from his parched throat. With every last ounce of willpower, his mind dragged him from the darkness; he opened his eyes to a dimly lit room. The beeping sound was coming from a monitor at the side of his bed; he was attached to the monitor via a wire. Corbett made an effort to sit up and the pain in his ribs caused a wave of nausea, in the shadows at the edge of the room someone stirred, and the movement filled him with apprehension. Something or someone had done him damage, but he had no memory of how he had gotten here.

A sound that was somehow familiar issued from the shadows, a soft whispering sound that somehow suggested something pleasant. It was only when a woman’s figure appeared in silhouette from the shadows. That his mind threw up a memory of that sound, it was the sound of a woman’s nylons rubbing together, when she crossed or uncrossed her legs. He had heard it a million times over the years as a woman sat on the barstool beside him, but all the women he had been intimate with had long since deserted him. Corbett suddenly realized that his mind was not working right, as disjointed images, thoughts, and memories flitted through his brain. The woman moved closer to the bed, and he struggled to make out her features but his vision was blurry. Apart from the outline of her shapely figure and blonde hair, the rest of her remained a blurred vision that somehow reminded him of rain on a car window. “Are you okay Jack, shall I call the nurse in?” The female leaned close and he caught the scent of expensive perfume and tobacco, and part of him wondered if she was a lover.

The woman placed her hand behind his head and lifted gently, the cool water from the beaker tasted heavenly on his parched lips. He gulped at it greedily and some of it went with his breath, causing a coughing fit that lit a fire in his ribs. He groaned loudly and the woman made soothing sounds as if she was dealing with a baby. “Take it easy Jack; you have two broken ribs, cuts, bruising, and a concussion.” She returned his head gently to the pillow and took a step back; he badly wanted to ask who she was and what had happened to him. But his mind refused to let him concentrate, and once again wandered off to times gone by. Without him realizing it a second woman appeared by the bedside, she was dressed all in white and he knew it must be the nurse. This woman had a different scent, she smelled of disinfectant and other chemicals. A brief conversation that he could not follow took place between the women; the blonde woman brushed her hand gently on his cheek and stepped back. A sharp sting in his arm momentarily startled him, and then he faded back into the darkness.

An indiscernible amount of time passed where he faded in and out of consciousness until he finally woke and the room was bathed in daylight. Whatever they had given him for pain management had well and truly worn off, and each breath felt like a knife sliding between his ribs. Mucous had built up in his chest and the urge to cough was treacherous, when he finally gave into it the resulting spasm in his ribs caused black spots to dance in front of his eyes. With an exhausting pain-filled effort, he finally managed to pull his broken body to a sitting position in the bed. There he sat moaning with discomfort when the doctor swanned into the room, the small heavyset man in the white coat had a surprised expression on his face. This made Corbett wonder whether the doctor was half expecting to find him stone cold and dead as a Dodo. The doctor turned his attention to the clipboard in his hand, shaking his head in a bewildered manner as he studied the chart. For some reason, this infuriated Corbett, and it took all his willpower to bite his tongue and stay silent. Eventually, the doctor seemed to awaken from his trance; he smiled at Corbett as he gave him a cursory examination, before telling him he could go home.

Corbett was in the process of attempting to put on his blood-stained shirt when the blonde woman walked into the room. In stark contrast to the medic who had just left, she appeared happy to see that he was still alive. There was something vaguely familiar about the woman, but for the life of him, he could not put his finger on it. She was pretty and somewhere in her thirties as far as he could make out, her clothes looked expensive and tailored to her womanly figure. Her rouged lips parted in a welcoming smile, and her nylons whispered beneath her pencil skirt as she crossed the room. Corbett was monetarily mesmerized by the sway of her hips as she approached, and a brief image of a woman just like her, only older, flitted across his mind. “Here Jack, let me do that. You will have to be careful with your movements until those ribs heal.” Something about the scene bothered him, and the thought that the woman should be older persisted in his mind. Seeing his expression, the woman looked at him with a concerned expression. “Don’t worry Jack, the doctor told me that short-term amnesia was common in injuries like you sustained. He assures me that your memory should be back to normal, in a short time.” She leaned close to him and buttoned up his shirt, her scent was of expensive perfume and an underlying smell of tobacco.

The moment the woman sat behind the wheel of the high-end Jaguar, she lit two cigarettes and handed him one. For some reason, a sharp stab of guilt went through him as he raised the cigarette to his lips, but after the first drag a warm feeling of being reunited with an old friend took over. The car was a beauty; it was a deep burgundy with magnificent red leather upholstery and walnut trim and dash. This kind of car cost a king’s ransom, and once again he felt uncomfortable about the situation. His apprehension only grew when she turned the car in the opposite direction of his flat; when he pointed this out she gave him a sad sort of smile. “Jack you haven’t lived in that dump for a long time now, never mind it will all come back to you in time.” She rested her hand high on his thigh near his groin, it should have been an intimate gesture, but somehow it made him feel uncomfortable.

The quiet Cul de sac looked familiar but not in a way that made any sense to him, the grand houses in the secluded square did not look like any place he would normally visit. Yet, the feeling of familiarity persisted, and it was as if he had finally arrived at a place he had only seen previously in a picture. The blonde woman ushered him into the hallway of the big townhouse, it was decorated with expensive flocked wallpaper, and an antique hall stand sported an old-fashioned upright phone with an ivory handset. Once again this was somehow familiar but again there was something not quite right about it. For some unknown reason, the hallway looked too tidy and clean as if his mind had been expecting it to be run down. The blonde woman returned to the car and opened the boot; while she was gone he retrieved the mail lying on the floor behind the front door. The letters were addressed to a woman called Sophia Ellsworth, a sudden image flashed across his mind of a hand reaching through a haze of cigarette smoke. But as quickly as it arrived the image vanished again, Corbett tried hard to dig some memories from the haziness in his mind, but he had a headache coming on and felt weak and disorientated.

The woman he presumed to be Sophia Ellsworth, returned from the car carrying shopping bags. Corbett followed her to the doorway at the far end of the hall, when he entered the kitchen he had a stronger feeling of familiarity. The woman dropped the shopping bags unceremoniously on the kitchen floor, and turned to take his hand before leading him back to the hallway and upstairs. He watched the sway of her hips and rounded bottom as she walked upstairs ahead of him, but instead of making him excited he was preoccupied with a feeling of trepidation. Nothing of the upstairs part of the house looked familiar to him; Sophia led him to a huge elaborate bathroom, where she ran a bath. “Get out of those filthy clothes Jack and have a soak in the bath, you can have a lie down before dinner.” He waited like a shy schoolboy until she left the room before stripping and getting into the bath. She had put some sort of oils in the bathwater and he felt them soaking into his flesh, it was not long before he began to relax and the soreness in his body abated. Corbett closed his eyes and retreated into his mind, but try as he would he could not summon up any recent memories. The memories that did offer themselves up did not seem to fit the present, and he had a feeling they were old memories.

Whether he had drifted off to sleep he was not sure, but when he opened his eyes the bathwater was cold. The blonde woman was standing by the side of the bath holding a fluffy white bath towel; Corbett had to force himself to leave the sanctuary of the water. Standing naked in front of a stranger is never easy, but something about the faintest hint of a smirk on the woman’s face added greatly to his embarrassment. Her eyes brazenly wandered over every inch of his body, and unconsciously he covered his groin with both hands. Sophia seemed to find this amusing and she smiled mockingly at him, but something in her eyes did not reflect humor. It was then he that his attention was drawn to those eyes; they seemed impossible dark and had a feline quality to them. She reached out and ran her hand over the massive bruising on his right side, her touch was light but he still winced with pain. His reaction brought a flush to her pale cheeks, and her tongue darted out and licked her rouge lips. Sophia suddenly seemed flustered, and she handed him the towel and left the room.

Corbett found the bedroom door ajar and lay on the big four-poster bed wrapped in the bath towel. Moments later Sophia entered the room, she placed two pills and a glass of whiskey on the nightstand by his bed. “Take those pills Jack they are to help with the pain, have a rest, and regain your strength. We will need you fighting fit again if we are to find out what happened to poor Maurice, I will call you when dinner is ready.” As if not trusting him to take the medicine, she handed him the pills in his hand and waited as he put them in his mouth before handing him the glass of whiskey. Sophia watched him take a couple of sips, and this seemed to satisfy her that the pills had been swallowed. Corbett closed his eyes and she turned to leave, moments passed and when he opened his eyes again, she was still standing in the doorway. Something about the way she looked at him was disturbing, and he was reminded of how a cat watched a mouse before killing it. Corbett had a strong urge to get the hell out of this strange situation, but his eyelids suddenly felt heavy as lead and he drifted off.

The next couple of days passed in a strange haze in which he spent most of his time sleeping, Sophia brought his meals to the room and fed him his medicine. Inevitable he no sooner had swallowed the pills and he was once more in a deep dreamless sleep, only to be awakened for his next meal and more pills. This all changed after the night she came to his bed, Corbett awoke to the feeling someone was watching him. Sophia emerged from the shadows and shrugged her nightgown to the floor; the sight of her dressed in high heels and expensive lingerie was breathtaking and at the same time filled him with apprehension. What followed was an experience the like of which he had never even dreamed of; there was nothing tender about her lovemaking. She took him like a wild animal, totally oblivious to his injuries, and inflicting many more with her teeth and fingernails. Corbett was taken to a place he had never imagined even in his wildest dreams, he found himself swept along on a tide of ecstasy and pain to otherworldly places and sometimes he felt as if they were not alone in the throes of passion.

Corbett drifted off to sleep with her hot breath on his ear and whispered words that made no sense to him. Whatever she whispered to him it was in a language he could not understand. The words without meaning had a strangely hypnotic quality to his drowsy mind. Corbett was no stranger to whispered endearments in darkened rooms, but there was something different about these whispers. They coaxed his mind deeper into sleep until it felt as if he lost the world forever, there in the velvet darkness the words circled him like a whirlwind. They plucked at his hair and writhed on his skin like snakes until they found their way inside him. Once they had gained entry they filled him with something foreign, until he felt all he ever was being slowly drained from him. Soon even the whispering was left behind and his mind drifted in the velvet darkness, in some place beyond this world.

The moment he opened his eyes, his mind registered that the world was different. Even the sun shining through the bedroom window appeared to have a different quality to it as if he was looking through the eyes of a newborn. The unfamiliar room no longer bothered him, as his mind came to terms with the fact that everything from now would be a new experience. Corbett turned to find a space where she had lain last night, and he felt his heart sink. A thought flashed across his mind that without her he was nothing as if his very existence was now solely for her. Standing naked in the bathroom Corbett stared in disbelief at his torso, the vivid purple bruising on his ribs had faded to a faint yellowish hew. His ribs were no longer sore to the touch; it was almost as if a month’s healing had taken place while he slept. But the water in the shower stung the web of scratches and bites that covered his body, and he was conscious of the heavy aching feeling in his groin. Back in the bedroom, the large ornate wardrobe was filled with expensive men’s clothes, he selected a suit, shirt, and tie with the distinct feeling that she would want him to look smart. He was gutted to find the house empty when he went downstairs, a pack of cigarettes and a gold lighter were left on the kitchen table.

Corbett had just lit the last cigarette when he heard the front door open, it was only then he realized that it was dark outside the kitchen window. A feeling of panic surged through him with the realization that he had sat all day in the kitchen drinking coffee and smoking. A whole day had passed him by without him realizing it, but the moment she walked in the room everything seemed okay once again. The welcoming smile he gave her was met with a look of indifference, and when he tried to engage her in conversation she silenced him with a gesture of her hand. “Listen up Jack; now that you are recovered we need to start concentrating on finding out what happened to Maurice. I need to know who was behind his death, and more importantly, I need to find out just exactly what he wrote in those memoirs he was boasting about.” She turned her back on him and walked out of the kitchen. “I am going to take a shower and change my clothes, and when I get back we will pay a visit to his house.” The one-sided conversation was brought to a close with the sound of the bathroom door banging shut.

The cool sophisticated aura had deserted Sophia the moment they stepped inside the back garden of the big house; they had accessed the garden by way of a narrow laneway that ran the length of the square behind the houses. The entrance to the laneway was concealed by an overgrown hedgerow and Corbett had a feeling it was seldom used, however, he had an irrational feeling of being watched. Sophia too seemed tense and jumpy, and her head swiveled constantly as she scanned her surroundings. Logic told him that the house was empty and no one had seen them enter the back garden, but he could not shake the feeling of impending danger. Sophia pushed the backdoor and it swung inwards silently, however instead of entering the house, she stepped back and grabbed his elbow, and shoved him forward. The grip of her hand felt like a steel vice on his elbow, and he gave an involuntary moan. “Shut the fuck up Jack, or do you want the whole world to know we are trespassing in a dead man’s home.” The words were hissed in his ear before she propelled him into the house like a rag doll. He turned to find her standing in the shadows halfway down the garden, and for a moment something about her outline looked all wrong. But before his mind could register what he had just seen, she had taken a step backward and was lost from sight in the shadows.

Her voice drifted to him from the darkness, it had a strange husky quality to it that he had not heard before. “Maurice has a study on the first floor; make sure you bring any correspondence you find there. Bring any address or phone books or anything that might be relevant to where the manuscript is kept.” The tone of her voice hinted that this was not open for discussion, and somewhere in the greyness that seemed to occupy his mind these days, a faint voice insisted that this woman was a danger to him. Corbett crept through the house and found his way to the front hallway, the darkness of the stairwell filled him with apprehension, but he pushed himself forward. It was then he realized he was more afraid of Sophia than he was of whatever might await him in the darkness above. The creaking sound of the steps sounded impossible loud, in the silence of the darkened house, and the beating of his heart pounded like a bass drum in his ears. At the end of the upstairs hallway, he opened a door and found the study, the room was dimly illuminated by the streetlights outside. Corbett crossed the room and closed the heavy velvet drapes plunging the room into pitch darkness, in a panic he fumbled for the lamp on the large antique desk. By the time he found the lamp he thought he was going to have a heart attack, and even when he managed to turn on the lamp, the shadows at the edge of the room filled him with fear.

Working as quickly as he could, Corbett rifled through the drawers taking any correspondence he could find. He piled all the papers and address books into a Gladstone bag he found in the corner of the big room, any piece of paper he could find went into the bag without him even examining it. Something about the house felt wrong, it was as if the very walls of the place were silently observing him. The room itself seemed to give off a menacing atmosphere as if it resented the intrusion. Corbett had gone through the room in less than twenty minutes according to his watch, but it felt as if it was an age since he left her in the back garden. Taking a last look around the room before leaving, a couple of things came to his notice. Strange symbols had been scratched into the polished wood floor as if a wayward child had been doodling with a penknife, and a line of white powder that looked like salt had been placed across the threshold. Corbett stooped and traced the outlines of the etchings with his fingers, and it was then he spotted the envelope taped to the underside of the desk.

It was raining when he got to the back door and he placed the envelope in the inside pocket beneath his jacket, he had no sooner stepped outside when Sophia appeared from the shadows. With the speed of a striking snake her hand reached out and snatched the bag from his, before he could speak she had turned and vanished into the shadows again. Corbett had to practically run to keep up with her, and by the time he reached the square, she was already entering the front door of her house. He found her sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle and two glasses of whiskey in front of her. Sophia handed him the whiskey glass with a seductive smile, which never quite lit up her eyes. “Congratulations on a job well done Jack, it has been a pleasure working with you.” She touched her glass on his, and they both drank. Everything seemed to get blurry from then on, and the last thing he remembered was her helping him up the stairs. Corbett reached out to caress her, but she pushed him back onto the bed not too gently. Her laughter followed him into the darkness, but her laughter was not of pleasure but mocking.       

Bad Press (Part 1)

The piercing sound drilling into his brain brought him struggling to consciousness, dragging him against his will from the comforting numbness of oblivion. Jack Corbett’s first instinct was to pull the grubby sweat-stained pillow over his head and seek out the sanctuary of unconsciousness one again, but the shrill ringing of the phone was relentless. It felt like red hot needles burrowing through his ears into his brain, he silently cursed himself for paying the phone bill before they withdrew service from him. After all, he had ignored almost every other utility bill in favor of hard liquor, but Jack still clung stubbornly to the illusion that he was capable of getting his career back on track. After all, he could not possibly be a top investigative journalist without access to a phone.

It seemed a lifetime ago now since he was one of the most sought-after journalists in the trade, all the major publications were clamoring to hire him. The problem was he had begun to believe in his invincibility, the awards and accolades had gone to his head. Jack became sloppy and the celebratory drinks began to turn into full-blown benders. His stories morphed from cutting-edge investigative pieces, into rambling self-opinionated self-righteous drivel. The drink only served to fuel his arrogance to a point where any critic of his work became a personal attack on him; the people he had worked for tried to help. But Jack was beyond help, so now he eked out an existence as a freelance reporter, selling his stories to whoever was willing to pay enough for his next bender.

The ringing finally ceased and for a brief moment he harbored the slight hope that he could return to the deep dreamless sleep he been awakened from, but moments later the phone began its torturous shrill sound once again. Cursing loudly he threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, the sudden movement causing the room to lurch alarmingly. Jack hung his head between his legs fighting a wave of nausea, and waited for the dizzy feeling to pass. All the while the ringing of the phone threatened to give him a brain bleed; eventually, he made his way to the hall table and picked up the receiver. The resulting silence was blissful and he was tempted to just leave the phone off the hook, but a small urgent voice on the other end of the line called his name over and over. “Hello” The word came out as a hoarse croak from his parched throat, he had to clear his throat and try again. The voice on the other end delivered the message as he listened in silence, his befuddled mind struggling to comprehend what he was being told. Jack had hung up before he realized that he had not even given the caller the curtsey of a thank you, or even said goodbye.

The luminous hands of his watch told him it was six-thirty, but he was at a loss as to whether it was a.m. or p.m.; as a matter of fact, he was at a total loss as to what day, month, or year it was. The water running cold in the shower seemed to be the catalyst and his mind began to clear, by the time he stood shivering in the bedroom he had begun to decipher what the telephone call was about. It was from an old contact at the police station, tipping him off regarding the suicide of a once-prominent gossip columnist. Corbett had not recognized the name but his contact at the police station seemed to think there was a story in it. He felt like death warmed up and his first instinct was to crawl back into bed and wallow in self-pity, but as per usual he was broke and he needed to sell some kind of story to feed his habit. He dressed in the cleanest clothes he could find, finished the dregs of cheap whiskey in the bottle laying by his bedside, and headed out into the wet darkness outside.

Corbett finally got the engine of the old ford to cough into life, and the needle of the fuel gauge hovered just above the red sector on the dial. He could not remember when he had last filled the tank, and he hoped he had enough fuel to get him to the address he had been given. He felt the onset of the tremors and wished he had spared some whiskey for the morning. A thorough rummage through the glove compartment turned up a cannabis joint that looked like it had been there quite a while, the grass tasted moldy but by the time he had finished it, the worst effects of the hangover seemed to be abating. He switched the radio on just in time to get the end of seven a.m. news, at least now he knew what part of the day he was in. The wind-driven rain made driving difficult, and he felt his heart sink when he drove into the morning rush hour traffic. Not for the first time recently Corbett found himself wondering whether his life was worth living, or if maybe he should contemplate putting an end to it all.

Corbett followed the directions he had been given and was relieved to find himself leaving the rush hour traffic in his wake, out here in the leafy suburbs the rat race seemed very far removed. But as he drove down tree-lined boulevards flanked with palatial houses, he found himself once more thinking depressing thoughts. It was a stark reminder of how far down the food chain he had slipped; the people that lived here were as far removed from his life as the gods of Olympia. The effects of the joint were beginning to wear off now and he was getting antsy, he had completely lost his sense of direction and his body was screaming out for a drink. He was on the brink of abandoning his mission and heading for one of the early house bars he frequented when he caught the flashing light of the ambulance in his peripheral vision. The ambulance and a police car were parked in a quiet cul de sac on his left, outside a formidable-looking Georgian house. He pulled the car to the curbside and watched the scene; the quiet square was devoid of people bar a lone cop who leaned against the patrol car smoking a cigarette.

The whole scene had a forlorn feel to it that just fuelled the underlying melancholy that clung to him lately like a funeral shroud. The thought of dealing with the tragic end of the man that lived in the house suddenly filled him with dread. Suicide had been an all too frequent subject matter in his mind recently, and a part of his mind now wondered whether it was just a coincidence that he ended up here this dreary November morning. The antsy feeling was quickly turning into a full-blown anxiety attack, as his thoughts spiraled towards a very dark place. Corbett grabbed the handle of the door and forced himself to step out onto the wet footpath; he fumbled in his breast pocket and found the dog eared press pass. He hoped that the bored cop would not twig the fact that his press pass had been due for renewal for over two years now. Taking just a little too long to brace himself, he eventually walked in the direction of the patrol car, doing his best to exude confidence that was completely absent from him.

The cop dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and ground it into the wet surface with the heel of his boot. Corbett cleared his throat and the cop looked up with an expression that hovered between annoyance and downright hostility. The man in uniform did not look far off retirement age, and he had that hard expression in his eyes that told he was sick of the world and all the shit that came with it. Corbett did his best to offer a friendly smile and was rewarded with a scowl from the old cop, he held up the press pass as if it would miraculously impress the cop or at least evoke some professional curtsey from the man. Briefly, a hint of a smile played on the cop’s lips but it quickly changed to a sneer. “Fuck off you parasite, if you want to know what is going on here, then ring the press office later”. The anger in his voice and his expression caused Corbett to retreat a couple of steps. For one terrifying moment he believed the cop was going to assault him, and he was relieved when the cop’s attention was drawn to the front door of the house.

Two ambulance men came out wheeling a gurney with a body bag on it, followed closely by the angry cop’s partner. The paramedics nonchalantly loaded the remains into the back of the ambulance, before driving away as if on a Sunday outing. Angry cop muttered something to his partner, and the other man treated Corbett to a condescending sneer before they too drove off in the wake of the ambulance. Corbett was left like a stray dog standing in the rain; the brief interaction with the old cop had shaken him badly. As if a veil had been lifted from his mind, the thought hit him like a freight train. He was no longer capable of doing this job, and the tears welled up in his eyes before tumbling down his cheeks, melding with the cold November rain. Dejected he began to shuffle towards the car; inside he rested his forehead on the steering wheel and wallowed in self-pity. The sudden banging on the window startled him, and for a moment he believed his heart would stop.

The rain running down the driver’s window allowed only a blurry image of the figure standing outside, it was small and he wondered whether it was a child. Again the bony knuckles tapped urgently on the wet window, and his first instinct was to start the engine and drive away. “Sir, are you alright in there? I just need to speak with you for a moment.” The voice sounded husky and hesitant, and it was female. Corbett wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket and glanced at his image in the rearview mirror. The haunted look in his bloodshot eyes did little to lift the crushing hopelessness that enveloped him, bracing himself he rolled down the window. The hunched figure standing on the pavement was lost in a hooded coat the looked several sizes too big. “Sorry to bother you officer but I was wondering whether I could speak with you regarding poor Mr, Granger. You see I find it hard to believe that he would end his own life, well to be honest with you he was just too selfish to do such a thing.” These last few words were spoken in a whisper and trailed off until he could scarcely hear them.

Corbett’s first instinct was to point out the fact that the woman was mistaken; he was just about to tell her he was not a cop when the reporter’s curiosity kicked in. Taking his notebook from his trench coat pocket he once again stepped out into the inclement weather, the woman pointed to the house directly across the square from the deceased man’s house and asked him if he would rather talk inside. It couldn’t hurt to see what the woman had to say, and he followed her across the road. A faint glimmer of excitement fluttered in the darkness and for a moment he felt like a real reporter again, a small voice deep inside his head cautioned about the consequences of impersonating a police officer, but he brushed it aside. He was already at rock bottom so the cops could hardly make life much worse for him, and he had a growing feeling that there was a story here. The woman opened the door of the large townhouse and he followed her into the darkness of the hallway, a sudden shudder came over him but he put it down to the withdrawal from the drink.

The hallway was dim and felt claustrophobic and he almost cried out when the door closed plunging his surroundings into pitch darkness, directly behind him he heard a noise and the hallway was suddenly illuminated in a faint yellowish light. The woman brushed past him and he caught her scent, expensive perfume, and stale tobacco. She entered the open doorway at the far end of the hall, and that room was illuminated. The lights of the other room entered the hallway and he could make out his surroundings. The walls were covered with what once might have been very expensive wallpaper, and the antique mahogany hall stand was covered with a layer of dust, as was the old-style upright phone, the overall impression was one of wealth in decline. A slight musty smell hung in the air, and for some reason, it projected an air of loneliness. “This way officer, I have put on the kettle for tea.”  Corbett made his way hesitantly towards the voice.

The kitchen in stark contrast to the hallway was brightly lit by several lamps strategically placed around the room; it was warm and had a cozy lived-in feeling about it. A copper kettle sat on a big AGA cooker, a faint wisp of steam rising from its spout. Corbett was surprised to find himself alone in the room and was slightly startled when the woman reappeared from a doorway that was concealed by a large antique dresser. The oversized coat had been discarded, and he was looking at a woman of indiscernible age. At first glance, she could have passed for a woman of forty, but on closer inspection, the lines beneath her makeup told a different story. She nodded her head and her blonde curls fell forward partially concealing her features, her figure was rounded in all the right places, and Corbett realized that in an earlier life she would have been very desirable. “Please sit down officer while I make us some tea.” Her voice seemed different now as if the fact of being in her own house had instilled more confidence in her.

The handle of the fine china cup seemed impossible small to his clumsy fingers, and the trembling of his hand threatened to shatter it. He was conscious of the woman sitting across the table from him, and her silent appraisal of him made him nervous. The heavy silence in the room was oppressive, and he blurted it out before even thinking. “Sorry Ms, but there seems to be a bit of a misunderstanding here, I am not a police officer I am a reporter.” Even as he spoke he knew he had blown any chance of getting her to talk, and prepared for angry indignation. But his confession was met only with an awkward silence; she pulled on her cigarette and was lost from view behind a veil of smoke. He rose from the table and turned to leave. Her hand reached through the cloud of smoke and latched on to his wrist, he was surprised with the strength of her grip. “Sit down Mr; I never did trust the cops anyway.” Corbett glanced over expecting to catch a mocking expression on her face, but all that was there was a steely look of determination.

The kitchen was shrouded in a haze of tobacco smoke that stung his eyes, and the hand holding the pen had long since stopped moving. The woman named Sophia Ellsworth had started hesitantly, but once she got going the words flowed nonstop for what seemed like a very long time. Corbett had stopped writing a while back and he was aware that what he had written so far would be dismissed as poor fiction; the woman pacing the kitchen floor was telling a story so farfetched that most people would dismiss every word as fiction or the ramblings of a deranged mind. But for some reason, Corbett believed her, and he could also see why she had not gone to the cops with this. When she finally stopped talking she seemed exhausted as if the retelling of the story had drained her, they both sat in silence.

Maurice Granger had not started his working career as a gossip columnist; as a matter of fact, his previous life would have been a gossip columnist wet dream. According to Sophia Maurice Granger moved in extremely powerful circles, and when he fell foul of the people in those circles, he had used contacts in the media to get the position of a gossip columnist. His articles appeared under the name of Fredrick Sykes. That name had jogged Corbett’s memory back to the phone call that woke him this morning, his contact had mentioned the deceased as being one Fredrick Sykes. Granger aka Sykes used his column to do hit pieces on his former colleagues, these stories caused quite a stir in the beginning. Sykes became somewhat of a celebrity, but endless threats of lawsuits to anyone that printed his work soon found him unemployable, and his short-lived notoriety faded and he became a recluse. But Sophia told Corbett that Sykes had made a reappearance lately, attending venues where the powerful gathered and telling anyone that would listen to him that he would soon publish his memoirs. Memoirs he claimed would rock the establishment of the country to its very foundations. According to Sophia, he had told her that his latest project might put him in grave danger.

“I know this whole thing sounds farfetched Mr. Corbett, but I don’t believe he took his own life. Maurice had made several complaints to the police lately; he believed that dark forces were threatening his life. Of course, they dismissed his complaints as fanciful illusions of a troubled mind. Maurice may have been many things, but delusional he was not. I want you to help me get to the bottom of this.” Corbett broke from his muse and studied the woman sitting opposite him; her eyes seemed to look straight through him, beyond the outer shell of flesh and bone and deep into his essence. Something told him that there just might be a story of a lifetime here, but deep down he feared that he was not the man to dig it out. Corbett settled on promising her he would try and find out what the cops thought of this. As he walked out into the dreary November morning, he felt her eyes on him the whole way back to the car. In the car, he lit a cigarette and contemplated his future, and by the time he threw the butt out the window he had made up his mind. There was nowhere left for him to turn, so following this story was all the choice he had left.

Corbett rooted through his pockets in search of small change; through the grimy glass of the phone box, he could see the police station across the street from him. Back in the day he could have swanned in there, and have a cozy chat with anyone from the desk sergeant to the lead detective regarding any newsworthy stories. There was always someone in the establishment willing to talk to him, but nowadays he would be told to fuck off. Mind you, who could blame them; towards the end, he had written some nasty things about this police force. Things that were by and large truthful, but things he would never have written if he was sober. Still, there were a couple of people, who if not friends, were still willing to pass a civil word with him. A gruff voice answered the phone, and Corbett pushed the button and the coins dropped into the box. Corbett asked for Detective Jones and was put on hold; it seemed like forever before Jones came on the line. Jones sounded anything but happy to hear from Corbett but agreed to a quick chat.

Corbett made his way down the narrow rubbish-strewn alleyway and found Jones standing in the open doorway at the back of the station house. A cigarette hung from the corner of the detective’s mouth, and Corbett was a little shocked to see how Jones had aged. Before he could pass any pleasantries, Jones spoke in a hoarse voice. “I haven’t got time for any of your bullshit Jack; just tell me what you want.”  Jones listened to Corbett’s request regarding Sykes apparent suicide, for a moment Corbett was certain the detective would refuse his request. But to Jack’s surprise, he was told to wait there, as the detective went back inside closing the door behind him. By the time Jones returned, Corbett was wet through and shivering with the cold. “Look Corbett, the guy was suffering from mental issues. The voices in his head got too much for him, and he put a rope around his neck and stopped them. A clear-cut case of suicide.” Jones was about to close the door and Corbett put his foot in the jam. “What about the complaints he made to the cops that his life was being threatened?”

The look on Jones’s face told a lot, it was a mixture of anger and concern. He opened his mouth but thought better of it; instead, he turned his back on Corbett. Corbett was almost at the end of the alleyway when Jones’s voice drifted to him. “Leave this one alone Jack, this is not a story you want to be poking about in. Find yourself a whiskey bottle and crawl into it, stay there until you forget all about Fredrick Sykes.”  Corbett began to turn towards Jones but the slamming of the door told him the conversation was over. For a brief moment, a flash of indignation set a fire in his belly, but he no longer had the willpower for even this. The angry feeling simply faded and was replaced with the familiar feeling of hopelessness. Back on the main street, he turned in the opposite direction to where he had parked the car; he walked at a brisk pace towards the market area. Where he knew he would find an open bar that would extend him some credit.

The surly-looking barman paused in the act of polishing the same glass that he had been polishing for the past ten minutes. The expression on his face told Jack that he had already outstayed his welcome, but with a drunk’s false sense of optimism. Jack held the empty whiskey glass aloft and asked for a refill. An angry grimace flitted across the barman’s face, but he strode across and took the glass and refilled it. Joe Hayes placed the glass of whiskey on the counter in front of Jack, with enough force to make some of the liquid slop over the rim. “That’s your last one Jack; you have reached your credit limit.”  Hayes returned to polishing the glass and Jack downed the whiskey in one. He was little more than twenty feet from the front door of the bar when the figure stepped out of the shadows. The first punch made fireworks go off inside his head; he went down like a sack of spuds. Kicks rained down on him for what seemed an eternity. Jack was already fading into oblivion when the voice drifted to him through the on-rushing darkness. “If you want to live any longer, you better forget all about Fredrick Sykes.”