The Twilight Time

Frigging Anna Cameron. That cow had made her buy the shorts out her own pocket. Jenny’s head ached. Frigging nightshift. Frigging Murder Lane. She didn't know why she called it that. All she knew was she’d always hated checking it at night. It stank and loomed, tenement backs menacing either side, windows black shut. The worst bit was the end - leading nowhere. Slamming abruptly, like clamping jaws. The lane was cobbled and sloped upwards from the street, twisting once, so from the road you couldn't see where it went. The years she'd spent checking it. Tiny yards and high stone walls offering no light. Just grim, crowding stone, built for access and servants. No mews here, not like behind the grand houses, higher up the hill.

Jenny was drawn by a fear that if she didn't poke her torch into the lane's dark fissures, in the morning they'd find a body, a dosser or something. They'd know his time of death, that he'd been there since midnight, and that she hadn't checked the lane. It could happen. One of the prostitutes had her face stoved in here, just last week. Claimed she’d been walking by, and the man had pulled her into the lane, but that was a load of bollocks. The girls didn’t come all the way down to the West End unless a punter had driven them in a car. Anyway, if it happened again tonight, it would one more thing that could be blamed on Jenny.

So, fear of humiliation conquered her fear of the lane. Or muffled it sufficiently to allow her in. Three years away from the street, three years without nightshifts, and it was burning bitter as ever. That witch Cameron knew. That's why she chose Jenny for nightshift.

On the way up the lane, she clutched her torch, striking shadows with blows of light - even though a real cop would check with his torch off - Doc Martens crunching deliberately loud on God knows what under her feet. The street could see her at the moment, neon lights and students spilling. Closer to the end she got, the lane narrowed in, buildings leering, closing out the stars. If she looked up, her head spun like standing at the bottom of a stairwell, craning to the skylight above. Once she turned the snaking bend, no-one could see her. Not from the street anyway. Thick air of decades cloying, waiting for a fresh breeze that never came. Quick flash into either corner, then about-turn. This was the bit, each time, where her heart slid. On the way up, light and life behind, an opening she could run to. It was when she turned round, to return to where the light was, that the shadow became intense. Watch your back. Watch your back. Watching your back. Blood echoed sighing and she quickened her pace, not running, just slurring her steps slightly so they would elide and not pause and keep going and, then, it was over. Out under sodium skies, wide breadths of streets stretching vistas to black-green parks and the world gasping out again.

"Fuck me," she exhaled. No extra payment for doing a nightshift. She'd forgotten the misery of rising at three, dinner for your breakfast. Setting out for work when others were off to bed and your body was in a different place from your head. Forgotten the night-filled boredom of pulling padlocks, spiced with an over-active mind drawing up every last horror film you ever saw till you shat yourself when a rat ran past. Forgotten the loneliness. In the Flexi Unit there was always two of you, because they were elite, the squads. No longer were you some poor bastard of a uniform carrier. Get into a squad and it was like going on your holidays.

She crossed over Woodlands, past Charing Cross and into St. George's Road. The road near empty, cool grey concrete brushed occasionally by a long distance lorry or a Black Hack with a decent fare. There was a car showroom in St. George's. Since the old night watchman was beaten up a few years back, he always welcomed a visit. With its comfy armchairs, discreetly placed television, and free coffee machine, it was the nearest to night-time Nirvana you could get. The gaffers tolerated it, so long as you'd the decency to pretend to be somewhere else when they shouted for you on the radio.

One final sweep and that would be her for the night. Check the Carnarvon Bar – door locked, lights out. It had been known for vigorous checking to set off alarms – public houses were particularly sensitive for some reason. Then the keyholder would be called. Would sigh, smile, open up. Offer a wee nip to keep the chill out. Jenny needed coffee, not whisky. Her legs throbbed where the woman had kicked her. She'd not slept in the day and was getting that shaky way, aching tiredness crawling up her spine, softening her neck so the circulation fuzzed thicker than the pelt on her tongue. Up Carnarvon Street and into Ashley. Some scabby wee closes and a patch of wasteground. Squats and doss-houses and DSS dumps. A cursory peek and she was done. She passed the door because she'd expected what she saw. Splintered wood and staggered gait, half-on hinges pinging with the strain of taking up the slack. These people lived like animals. Passed it before the nagging started, told her to go back. Told her to look again. The wood was dark, then pale bright yellow where it gashed and gnashed against itself. A single hinge-pin rattling tinny-time with the breeze. One clear, muddy bootmark mid-way up the broken door, that slippery chill up her back.

It had been raining till an hour ago, and rain would have washed that boot mark clean away. She should call for assistance. They might still be in there.

Jenny pulled back into an adjacent doorway. "Treble Five to Alpha," she whispered. "Possible housebreaking in progress at 12 Ashley Street. Stations to assist."
"Ah, stand-by Treble Five."

A creak from inside. Turned her PR off, pushed the door. The bottom corner grated squint against the wall. She held it steady, squeezing through the smallest opening she could make. A slice of streetlight followed, and she switched off her torch. The ground floor doors were boarded up. She waited, listening to the not-breathing welling inside her eardrums. Nothing. Took the stairs carefully, keeping to the edge nearest the banister, where footsteps rarely went. First floor doors were open, empty. On to the second floor. Each step a step further from escape. Jenny felt the darkness at her back, soft as an air-pumped cushion, filling up the space. Could feel it touching her neck, pushing upwards, over, like a caul. Someone was watching her. Two doors facing. One with a cardboard name plate, something Arabic. The other dark, smelling of paint. She took a glove from her pocket and wrapped it round the handle of the first door. Turned quickly to catch out whoever was behind. Locked.

Went to the second door, turned the handle. It opened; Yale on the snib. Jenny stopped, listening again. No sound from inside. They could be behind the door, holding their breath. Holding a jemmy. She put on both her gloves, shoved the door, primed to strike at any movement with all the weight of her Maglite torch.

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Excerpt of After The Fire

Excerpt of Shadowplay