Creed (15 page)

He pulled the cover off completely and wrapped it around his shoulders; he stood there afraid and alone and wondering what was happening to him.

There had been nightmares before, lots of them – Christ, everyone had nightmares at some time or other – but nothing so real,
nothing so bloody awful
! He shuddered again and this time continued to do so. Only the deadly chill forced him into some kind of action, otherwise he might well have stayed there dwelling upon the nightmare for the rest of the morning. He went over to a chest of drawers and took out a pair of socks.

Sitting on the corner of the bed he pulled them on, then reached for a pair of jeans lying over the back of a nearby chair, the duvet still around his shoulders like a quilted shawl. The Wranglers were only halfway up his legs when the thought of those hairy, blood-swollen creatures busying themselves on his naked flesh while he slept slipped into even sharper focus and his stomach contracted and flipped and chose to rid itself of any contents.

He hobbled to the bathroom, tugging at the jeans on the way, shawl falling to the floor, dignity and poise having little value to him at that point in time. Past the stairway he hurried, one hand momentarily gripping the rail there to steady himself. He made it in time, but stopped, his throat and cheeks filling as he looked down at the toilet, with its closed lid and biding attitude.

Creed turned aside and let loose into the bathtub, sinking to his knees with the second wave, leaning his chest against the rim. It was unpleasant – in fact, it was disgusting – but no way was he going to open that toilet lid, nightmare or no nightmare; he really wasn’t ready for that just yet.

The nausea passed, along with all he’d eaten that month, he figured, and his stomach felt raw and hollow. Still resting against the bath, head and neck hanging over as if waiting for a falling axe, Creed reached out blindly for the taps. His shaking fingers found one head and twisted it to its fullest extent, then crossed to its companion. He swirled the water with the same hand, rounding up the slimy pieces and directing them towards the drain. Repellent though it was, the activity had some small therapeutic value.

He only stopped when his thoughts finally acknowledged what his eyes had noticed lying in the hallway only a few moments before.

He crawled to the bathroom door, his hand leaving damp patches on the tiled floor. It was there, exceedingly white on the beige hall carpet, lying quite near the top of the stairs. He watched it for a little while.

Creed slowly rose to his feet, hoisted up his jeans and buttoned them at the waist, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then went forward, hand trailing along the rail overlooking the stairway.

He didn’t pick up the envelope immediately; instead he took time to wonder how it had got there. His hand gripped the top of the rail post when he remembered what had been at the bottom of the stairs last night.

His mind did tumbles when he pictured that
creature
climbing up towards him, placing the envelope on the floor beside him, or . . . or even
on
him. Had he, Creed, dislodged it when he’d woken from the nightmare? Nightmare? Which was the nightmare and which was the reality? His body was unscathed, there were no bugs in the bed, yet here, lying at his feet, was material evidence of that
thing
’s presence! Creed lowered himself to his knees, hand still clinging to the post. Oh God, God, God, was he really so vulnerable? Could strangers enter and leave his castle whenever they wanted?

He touched the envelope as if expecting a reaction from it. There was none (but if toilets could develop teeth, there just
might
have been), so he picked it up and held it before his eyes. The flap was not sealed.

Finger and thumb slipped inside and pulled out the single sheet of folded paper. The note had been typed in caps and in two neat lines. It read:

That’s all it said.

The motorist in front mistakenly imagined that the parking space just about to be vacated was his: Creed had other ideas. He pulled up close behind, pretending he hadn’t noticed the other car’s reverse lights, nor the indicator winking the intent.

The driver of the parked vehicle shook her head in despair as she was forced to ease her way around the rear of the Suzuki, and Creed ignored her clearly mouthed obscenity as she finally drove by. He reversed the jeep, swinging a hard right, having to go forward again to avoid scraping the Peugeot next to the empty parking space. Meanwhile the driver whose meter he was stealing let his resentment be known by way of his Mercedes’ horn. Creed ignored this too, going forward once more so that he was correctly aligned.

What was difficult to ignore, though, was the supremely ugly face (that is, what could be seen of it above the wiry, matted whiskers and equally wiry, matted hairline) that appeared at the side window.

‘Oi’ll see y’all roight, sor,’ came a muffled voice that was as grizzled as the man’s features. Life-wearied, bloodshot eyes blinked at him from the other side of the glass.

The old lag waved his arms in the no-nonsense manner of an airport marshaller docking a 747, his fairly useless instructions liberally aided by shouts of ‘Sor!’ In the meantime, Mercedes Man had gone off in search of fresh pastures, albeit after having let Creed know what his life expectancy would be should they ever meet again. The rear wheels of the jeep nudged the kerb and Creed switched off the engine.

He had parked in Soho Square, using one of the rarely unoccupied bays fringing the tiny gardens there, all the vehicles positioned front– or rear-on so they resembled multicoloured metal petals around a giant sunflower’s centre. He touched his temples with stretched thumb and fingers and squeezed gently; neither the vociferous expressions of hostility, nor the filthy old buffoon out there still waving his arms and issuing instructions had helped his headache one bit. He felt hungover, but if pleasure had preceded it, then Creed wouldn’t have minded so much. He wondered if he’d suffered permanent damage in the fall downstairs the night before last. Brain damage, maybe. No, couldn’t be. He could think, see, smell. Nothing was impaired. The problem was, he was seeing
too much
.

Taking his hand away, he found the worn old face peering at him through the window again, a nightmare itself with its red-veined cheeks and nose, shiny wet lower lip, and yellowy eyes. A rag as grease-stained as the tramp’s ankle-length raincoat appeared on the windscreen and began a wildly exaggerated circular motion that left smears rather than clear patches.

Creed opened the side door three inches and said, ‘Piss off,’ in a matter-of-fact way.

‘Be done in a minute, sor,’ was the unoffended reply. ‘Sparkly clean it’ll be.’

Creed sighed and dipped into a top pocket of his combat jacket for a smoke. He’d had to take time to roll fresh ones before leaving the house that morning, using the work as a kind of therapy, something to do while he pondered on bad dreams and the very real message left on the carpet at the top of the stairs. Unfortunately the physical occupation hadn’t helped the thinking and vice versa: his fingers had been incredibly clumsy so that the cigarettes themselves were malformed and loose. He should have followed his normal habit of rolling a few the night before; but of course, he’d been a little shaky then as well, if he remembered correctly. In his possession he’d had a photograph of someone who was a dead ringer for a man hanged over fifty years ago. Nothing really unnerving about that. He could have been a relative – a son, a nephew – or just a guy with a similar face. So what?

Somebody wanted the photos and the negs, and they were going to unusual means to get them, that was so what.

Those prints were already gone, and although he could be wrong, it might have been Cally who had taken them.

The old sot outside spat on the windscreen and, to show that he honestly hadn’t aimed at the photographer’s face, he rubbed furiously at the spittle with his grubby rag. ‘Sparkly clean in a jif, sor, don’t you worry about that.’

Creed lit up, inhaled smoke, removed flakes of tobacco from his lower lip, and stepped down from the jeep.

‘Will I look after it f’yer, sor?’ The ancient watery eyes showed happiness at the prospect. One hand still held the rag to the windscreen, while the other was free to accept any coin proffered.

‘I told you to piss off,’ said Creed, this time not as friendly.

The tramp snorted and spat a very off-colour missile at the car next to the jeep. The blob of runny phlegm did nothing for the shiny red bodywork.

‘On the other hand,’ said Creed, digging for a silver piece, ‘have a nice day.’

He gave the tenpence to the square’s permanent but unofficial parking attendant, dropping it from a height of an inch or so above the vagrant’s outstretched hand rather than make actual contact. Creed turned away to feed the meter.

‘It’s a saint, y’are,’ the old man proclaimed, even though his natural good humour had been slightly dented. A finger touched his forelock in salute and Creed wasn’t entirely oblivious to the irony contained therein.

It was a fine day – cold, true enough, but the sun was shining and there wasn’t an umbrella in sight – and Creed gulped deep draughts of air as he made his way around the square, heading towards Carlisle and then Dean Street. Soho was never seedy at this time of day, only somewhat dishevelled. It was rarely too busy, either; that came with the lunchtime rush and continued through the afternoon and evening until night-time when it took on a distinctly different ‘other’ life.

Once in Dean Street, Creed began scrutinizing street numbers, walking towards Old Compton, certain the place he was searching for would be in that direction. He passed restaurants, pubs, film companies and offices as well as piles of rubbish and cardboard boxes dumped in doorways and gutters. He came to a halt when he reached what appeared to be a rather exclusive shop, its huge plate-glass window and door framed by deep olive-green wood, with terracotta tiles rising to knee level below the window. On display was a very large Regency doll’s-house painted white, its interior lit by tiny chandeliers and wall lights; furniture and furnishings could be glimpsed through the windows, and he saw there were tiny, costumed figures lounging in chairs or standing around, one ballgowned young lady seated at a miniature grand piano. Belowstairs there was even a rotund cook and a lean scullery-maid.

If Creed hadn’t had other matters on his mind, he would have taken a snap of the whole thing. (Our boy
always
carried a camera on him outside the house, even if he was only putting out the trash can, for you never knew when a great, or at least important, or at least reasonable, shot would present itself. Missed opportunities from earlier days when he’d known no better still came back to haunt him. If he didn’t have his camera bag with him, then a Nikon was always hung around his neck or, like today, stuffed inside one of the voluminous pockets of his combat jacket.)

Beyond the shop window was a receptionist’s desk, all dark leather and chrome, and a receptionist, all dusky-skinned and fine-boned. She was at that moment speaking into a red slimline phone that matched her glossy lipstick perfectly, and unaware – or, if not, pretending to be – of the scruffily dressed window-shopper. Averting his attention, Creed read the stylized gold script discreetly positioned at the bottom left-hand corner of the window:
Page Lidtrap
.

‘Lidtrap,’ Creed reminded himself. He said it again: ‘Lidtrap.’

Tossing what was left of the cigarette into the gutter, he pushed open the glass door and crossed the grey carpet to the desk. The girl still refused to notice him. Downcast though he felt, Creed managed to relish her dark beauty while he waited for her to finish with the phone. Her hair, naturally uncrinkled, was tightly pulled back over her scalp to rise up on top of her head like a braided hard-on. He speculated on how the effect was achieved until he saw she was watching him watching her.

She bade goodbye to the thin phone and set it in its cradle. ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was as good and as dark as her looks.

‘I’d like to see Cally McNally.’

Large, exquisite brown eyes stared at him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Cally McNally.’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘No. Cally. She works here.’

‘I think you must have the wrong company.’