Dark Places
by Lynn Cromarty

Chapter 1

When did she lose it, her equilibrium, and her peace?

The answer was obvious - on the day the shipment came.

“It’s nothing to get superstitious about,” John had said. Still John was a different person, a far steadier person than Ella could ever hope to be, a rock to her churning sea. The truth was obvious and there could be no recourse, no escape from that inexplicable event and all that should follow it.

“What do you want me to do with the new delivery?” Michael her assistant poked his head around the office door, a faded yellow delivery note in his hand and an expectant expression on his face. Sandy brown hair flopped over his eyes.

“Just put it into the holding area would you.” She paused, distracted. “I will take a look in a minute.”

He gave quick nod, and quipped “Sure thing.” Before disappearing and leaving the heavy door to swing slowly shut in his wake. With a sigh she leaned back into the chair and rubbed her fingers over her forehead. It was a mess, everything was such a damn mess, and then glanced at her old teak desk liberally strewn with papers and notes, a perfect representation of the state of her mind.

Sleep came so rarely now that everything had gained a strange slant, like she was forever skewed from reality. On one level it was all still there, but she was no longer connected to it. The dull ache behind her eyes throbbed softly, a reminder to the changes. I am lost, she thought, lost to love, to life even, caught on some mad Ferris wheel, with a warbled tune that would never allow rest.

With fingers that shook, she reached for the top drawer of the desk, and took the tiny bottle out. Her lips formed a tight line as she unscrewed the top and let the pale pink tablets fall into her waiting palm. “Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t” she muttered to no one but her-self, aware that she referred to far more than her recently acquired addition to the numb those inconsequential little pills could provide. A sip of water helped them down, but still she fought a reflective urge to gag as if her body knew nothing good could come in the taking.

It took only moments for the throb at her temples to ease, and not for the first time she was thankful that the tablets were swift. A façade of calmness descended; enough at least that she could get on with her day and pretend that life was normal. A short bitter laugh bubbled out, cut off before it could begin, and she rose swiftly catching a reflection as she did in the window opposite of a tall willowy woman, dark hair pulled back into a loose chignon, an illusion of civility and grace.

That face was far too solemn, and there were shadows under her eyes, still she needed to see to the shipment, and there would be no comfort in further considerations. With a light tread she walked out of her office, into the reception where Katie looked up with a light smile, then through the other side where a door led off to a short corridor and gave access to the holding area. It was a small room, somewhere to put containers that needed to be split down into smaller components before redistribution. Michael had already left and was probably in the stock room or the loading bay.

            A row of high windows let some natural light in, but it still felt dark, and she flipped the switch to bring illumination as though this could still the sense of foreboding. The door clicked softly shut behind her and brought an odd sense of being trapped. “They are paying us a lot of money.” John’s earlier cold assessment echoed through her mind. “So the guy is a nut ball, what do we care?”

            With a deep breath Ella put her mind firmly back on the crate. A slow circuit conformed that it was exactly the same as the last one.

            And there was even less comfort in that.

Chapter 2

Ella woke up with a start heart racing, skin damp and clammy under the old T-shirt she wore. The blue digital readout of the alarm said it was still an hour until dawn.

The bedroom was grainy and grey and she fumbled to find the light switch at her bedside to cast the room into semi-light. The distant hum of traffic filtered through the glazing of the window, bringing a relieved sense of the ordinary, and she sat up running her fingers over her face and pushing the knot of hair out of her eyes.

They had been there in her dream again, the malevolent chattering things spilling out of the crate, and onto her holding room floor.

She wasn’t supposed to dream with the sleeping tablets.

The bulb popped in the bedside light plunging the room back into darkness, and sending her already frayed nerves to screaming. The panic attack came swiftly robbing the ability to breathe, her throat closing so that she was forced the draw the air in with hoarse gasps and stumble for the doorway and the light switch of the room.

The light was almost a shock, and she doubled over, relief flooding in even as her throat still defied the need for her to breathe. The panic subsided slowly, and the throbbing began in her temple, sharp and insistent.

The sudden ring of her mobile brought her eyes to the bedside table. Surely nothing good could be heard from a call at this time of the night, and for a moment she was immobilised, half of her doubting that it even rung at all.

Legs unsteady and hands trembling she answered it. As she listened her knuckles stretched tightly over the phone. “I’ll be right over,” she replied.

Then she hung up.

Chapter 3

            The Kensington branch of her office was surrounded by police cars, the damp street echoing back the flashing blue lights as she eased her car in to the car park. Pulling on her jacket she climbed out of the car, as a man detached himself from a group of three and came towards her, a long dark coat flapping in the breeze, and the kind of grim weathered look that did nothing for her ease.

            “Mrs Moore?” He half asked, half stated, his hand already reaching out to take hers in a swift firm shake. “Detective Clarkson,” he added as she gave a numb nod in response.

            Her hair whipped around her face, drawing her browns together in annoyance, she hated it loose and in the way, why she had never thought to cut it suddenly preoccupied her as thought as it were a matter of the utmost importance.

            “If you will come with me,” the words distracted her repose. Clarkson was a tall man, lean and tight of face; his hands as he reached to push open the door of the building were all bone under skin. That her door was already open to him struck a note of discord.

            “The alarm was still running when the unit got here, they found the loading bay doors wide open.” He walked briskly down the corridor as though familiar with the layout. Through the doorway at the back that lead to store rooms, then on, as if she had not already known, to the holding area. Lights blazed everywhere, stark and exposing, casting shadows into corners. A man stood outside the door, talking on his radio, he nodded to Clarkson and stood aside so that they could enter.

            The room seemed excessively full as they joined the three men already inside. All were occupied, two examining the crate, the last bent over a bag on the floor; a long, black, person sized bag. It was not empty. Her heart seemed to stop then kick back with a furious thud.

            “Does anything seem out of place or disturbed to you?” The detective asked carefully, dragging her gaze from that bag and back to the room. She glanced about with an effort, her mind feeling empty of sense or thought. The simple task of recalling how it had looked earlier eluded her completely.

            The crate became her focus, and she frowned, for a long moment confused that it was still sealed and whole when her dream so recent and vivid stated otherwise.

            “Is there some problem with the crate?” He urged, moving closer or perhaps simply leaning towards her. She flicked a glance at him, and tried to school her features against the nightmare.

            “No.” She spoke softly, then with greater conviction. “It is exactly as it was.”

            “We have no ID on the man, if you are comfortable to confirm whether he was known to you, it would be appreciated.”

            It was not said in the manor that could be refused. Her nod was reluctant, the glance down told her nothing of what to expect. Panic bubbled up, fighting against the calm those little pink pills had instilled again. For an alarming moment she feared it would win, but the tenuous control came back and she looked down at the bag as the man kneeling beside it caught a nod from Clarkson and slowly eased the zip down.

He stopped at revealing the face, and she gave start, mostly relief that he was unknown, but partly shock in seeing that indisputable absence of life and not a sign of what might have provoked it.

A tight shake of her head saw it zipped quickly shut.

The hand pressing into her shoulder brought a delayed sense of contact, and she turned almost surprised to find the detective still there. “Let me take you back outside, and we can take a statement,” He said carefully.

Chapter 4

            “What have you done?”

            John stood in the doorway to their on-suite, his dark suit just a little crumpled from the trip, his tie loose, and his face caught somewhere between disbelief and horror.

            She could not meet his eyes, and instead regarded the stranger who blinked back at her through the mirror. Like a sleep walker coming out of a dream she wondered how she had arrived at this point and glanced down reluctantly at the basin where soft mounds of hair spilled out onto the floor. The scissors dropped from her fingers to clatter against the earthenware, and her hands buried her face as though to defy what she saw.

            “Come here,” it was softly spoken, and she felt the arms come around her, felt a sob rise up from somewhere deep inside, and like dam breaking more followed until it was a flood that could never be halted.

            She was pulled gently from the room, back into the bedroom, and the door was firmly shut. “Lie down,” John coaxed her down to the bed then curled up behind her, pulling her back against the comfort that felt forever to have been absent. The warmth seeped into her working against the anguish that wracked her.

            He did not ask her why, and she was grateful for that.

            After a time, weariness from too many sleepless nights took toll, and she drifted away.

            She woke up alone, disorientated, John was not there and she sat up sharply. Noise filtered up from the kitchen through the open bedroom door. The sounds were so normal that they brought a profound sense of peace. Lying back against the bed, she closed her eyes and let the clatters or clangs drift over her.

            For a time she lay there, empty of thought, not wanting to break that, but the footsteps came up the stairs, and she opened her eyes to find John in the doorway, the tie removed, and his top button undone.

            “I have made something to eat,” he said, and he no longer looked horrified.

            “You may want to -” He paused, gestured in her general direction, then added gravely. “Get that done professionally tomorrow.”

Then he smiled and in that instant the darkness was gone.

“Come on, time to eat!” He disappeared back down the stairs without waiting to see if she would follow.

Chapter 5

            The evening passed far more pleasantly than she could possibly have expected. The last few weeks, few months even, were erased from her occupation. There was only the pleasure of John being back, and the firm, heart-felt belief that everything was now in its proper perspective. They talked, and the sound of his voice became like a balm to all those former concerns.

It was manageable. It would all be right.

Having slept much of the afternoon she was not tired at bed time and so read for a while. John slept almost instantly, tired from the travelling, but he was close, and the sound of his breathing beside her warded all the turmoil away. She had been living under a cloud of despair for so long that its absence came as a shock that left her feeling strangely light. She had not taken a tablet since the morning; the pressure that built in her temples and normally drove her to them like clockwork was gone. The doctor’s warning not to stop taking them suddenly was ruthlessly quashed; she simply could bring her self to take another without a harrowing demand of pain. She would call the doctor tomorrow; make an appointment to talk it through.

                                                ***

            The insistent buzz of her mobile penetrated the haze of sleep, and Ella came awake to find her book flopped against her chest and the bedside lamp still on. She caught sight of the clock; it was three-fifteen, and dark outside her window, the traffic notably absent.

            Snatching up the phone, she shifted out of the bed, John was still asleep, and it would surely be better to leave him there. Closing the bedroom door behind her she answered the phone then listened.

            Not again!

“I’ll be right over,” she replied.

Then she hung up.

                                                ***

The sounds of someone in the shower drifted through her slumber. Damn she was so tired. Had there really been another break in at the office last night? Her thoughts tried to focus on the event, but it felt no more substantial than any other dream, and she had been so poorly rested of late that her mind played tricks on her with disconcerting ease. She remembered the phone call but nothing else, and even that lost tangibility under consideration.

On a distant level she heard the bathroom door open and close, then John muttering something that she could not quite catch before sleep pulled her once more into the blackness of oblivion.

                                                ***

            She awoke later still when the house was all quiet, and climbed from the bed to make her way down the stairs. John was already left, and she had no doubt that he had headed over to their office. The head ache was still gone, and its absence was like the removal of a background noise that left a wonderful feeling of ease, and she was glad that she had decided not to take the tablets after all.

            Getting ready was an effort, she suspected due to only her second half-decent sleep in a number of months. It would take time, she reflected, and did not ponder unduly on the way her thoughts kept slipping away like smoke captured by a breeze. At times she actually found her self poised at some task with no recollection of how she arrived there.

The traffic was slow on the drive to the office, the short journey took forever, but then she was there and her car slotted into the space to her relief. There was a police car in the car park almost hidden behind a van. It was empty. She stared at it for a moment cold, and shaky, and then hurried in determined to find the reason behind its presence, to remove the alarm its presence instantly provoked.

            The reception was empty, and Katie the receptionist absent. Ella found her office also unoccupied, as was the stock room. With a frown she headed on through to a door at the back which led out to the loading bay.

            The huge garage roller door was up; two police cars and a van were drawn up to the opening. Michael was standing to one side with a police woman, her hand on his shoulder and such a vacant expression on his face that she felt the hairs rise at her nape and that awful fluttering of panic.

Further on Katie sat on an old plastic chair another policeman at her side, her head in her hands.

            Ella hurried past without any need for indication toward the holding room, where the sick sense of despair told her everyone else was to be found. The man at the door ignored her when she entered. There was a man bent over a bag on the floor; a long, black, person sized bag.

It was not empty.

            “You don’t need to look Sir; one of your staff already identified her.” It was the same detective, the same parched look.

            “No, I want to.” John paused and took a deep breath. “I mean I need to. I don’t think I will believe it unless I do.”

            The detective nodded, his lips a line so thin they almost disappeared, and the man at the floor pulled the zip down to reveal what was there.

            It took several moments for the realisation of what she looked at to penetrate, it was the hair she decided; it was just so short, nestled around the face in a little fight of curls, and the sounds of someone crying breached the haze of her mind.

It was then that she screamed.

But no one looked.

And no one heard.

The End