What Wolfboy doesn’t know is that the way into Six is through Seven. And the way into Seven is straight through the front door as if we are sherbet-snorting, lollypop-sucking Kidds. I won’t lie; the sunken entrance looks like a hellmouth, but I force myself down the stairs.
The glass doors are smeared with the prints of a thousand Kiddy fingers. The foyer is deserted and no warmer than outside. Harsh fluorescent lights bounce off the worn lino floor and fake wood panels. The decor is different, but I’m almost a hundred per cent certain the layout of these buildings will match that of the Commons.
I march straight to the elevator and press the up button. I know what our next few moves should be, and I want Wolfboy to regain his confidence in me. No more hysteria. Letting the tarsier out wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it also meant I’m not scared anymore to do the right thing. I don’t think it’s harmed our chances. Not yet anyway.
The elevator doesn’t arrive. I cross my arms and fiddle with the ragged ends of my sleeves. I may know where we’re going but I still don’t know what we’re going to find there. I notice Wolfboy is looking on edge again, so I force myself to stop fidgeting. I don’t blame him. We’re sitting ducks here, highlighted in sickly fluorescent.
‘What do we do when we see someone?’ asks Wolfboy. ‘They’re gonna know straightaway that we don’t belong here. We need a story. Or are we going to shoot first, ask questions later?’
I press the up button again and focus on the row of floor numbers above the elevator doors, pretending I can make it arrive quicker by staring at them. Come on. Why can’t I even hear it moving?
‘We need to play it by ear. I recommend we don’t come out with all guns blazing. We should try to talk our way out of things first.’
The elevator finally begins its descent. The floor numbers light up in turn: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
‘It was just sitting on the fifth floor,’ I point out. ‘That’s a good sign.’
The lift hits the ground floor with a clunk. Wolfboy’s boots squeak on the lino as he crouches in a defensive stance. I fix my eyes on the steel doors, preparing for whatever is behind them. The doors open.
The lift is empty.
It’s lit by one weak bulb and smells seriously nasty, of urine or something worse. There’s a beaten-up old stool in one corner and every wall is tagged in red texta. It’s gross, but empty.
The doors close loudly behind us. The elevator is rickety and draughty and I’m pretty sure I can see gaps where the walls join the floor. I press the top button, marked ‘R’. The cables and weights that operate the deathtrap clunk around us. These walls are as flimsy as cardboard.
‘R?’
‘Roof.’
‘Are we going to abseil to Six?’
‘We need to look at the lie of the land before we rush in. We’ll be able to see everything from the roof. See any traps. Plot some escape routes.’
Wolfboy goes quiet so I guess he thinks my plan isn’t completely insane. There’s one thing I can’t accuse him of, and that’s being all alpha and macho. He was listening when I said we had to be a team. And right now this team member needs to go up to the roof to clear her mind. When we crossed the fence into Orphanville we didn’t leave our problems behind us, but once we’re in Building Six, with a chance to get the lighter, I don’t want to be thinking about anything else.
I turn my attention to the numbers above the door.
2.
3.
The passage of the elevator is far from smooth and several times it lurches and halts, only to jerk upwards a second later.
4.
5.
‘It’s a bit like Russian roulette, isn’t it?’ I say, without losing sight of the floor numbers as they light up.
‘Losing your nerve?’ he says, but I suspect he’s scared rigid. I’m probably only seconds away from totally losing it myself. Please don’t let the elevator stop. Please let it go straight to the roof.
And then it happens.
8.
The elevator stops.
DING!
I only have time to swear once before the doors open.
The eighth floor is pitch-black and it’s impossible to see anything beyond the elevator mouth. A figure shuffles out of the dark. Wolfboy moves into the back corner of the lift. I guess he took on board the whole no-guns-blazing thing.
A short Kidd enters, carrying a mini TV with a cracked screen. His windcheater hood obscures almost his entire face, and his bare feet are scratched and filthy. A stench like wet wool and chicken manure fills the elevator.
He shuffles in without looking at us, turns to face the doors and presses number 11. He wears a plank of wood strapped diagonally across his back like a sword. My eyes widen. Shards of glass have been glued to the wood with their points facing up. If anyone was unlucky enough to get hit with it, they’d bleed in about fifty different places. The doors slam shut and the elevator creaks into action once more.
9.
I don’t breathe. Keep calm. I wriggle my shoulders so I can feel the ukulele shift. If necessary I will sacrifice it on any Kidd that needs a ukulele to the head.
Hoodie can’t stand still; he tap-dances on the lino. Chances are he can’t see us clearly under his hood, or he’s too high to care. The stool legs bang on the floor as the elevator moves. Hoodie turns towards us in response to the sound, and grunts a greeting. He holds the TV forward. ‘Losht my power privilegesh,’ he says with a killer lisp. ‘Gordie took my stash sho I knife him.’
Neither of us speaks.
It’s obviously not the pleasant elevator conversation Hoodie is looking for because he tenses up and swings around to face us. His face could be half melted away under that hood and we wouldn’t know. A hand lets go of the TV and sneaks over his shoulder to touch the tip of his makeshift weapon.
I glance over at Wolfboy and he’s frozen against the corner.
It’s up to me.
I curl in on myself and think short thoughts. I fold my shoulders forwards and rock back and forth on my heels. I make my eyes wondrous and bite on my lip.
‘Sounds like Gordie got what he deserved,’ I say in a voice that’s more than half-Chipmunk. I think I’ve overdone it, but Hoodie grins, exposing nothing but mottled pink gums. No wonder he talks like he’s got a mouth full of fairy floss. His twitching hand drops and he grapples with the TV for a few seconds, trying not to drop it.
‘Haven’t finish wiv him yet though, have I?’
11.
The elevator jerks and Hoodie shifts his hands on the TV to get a better grip.
‘What’sh wiv the’—he gestures with the TV— ‘What’sh wiv the bow-wow-wow?’
Oh, Wolfboy’s going to love that.
‘Oh him?’ I twirl a piece of hair around my finger, and try to sound clueless. ‘Dunno. Boss says I gotta take care of him. He’s a freelancer or something.’
The doors open. Hoodie nods sagely. I catch a flash of his shiny eyes as his hood slips.
‘Bit of dat going on these daysh. Dey caught a no name out tonight, sho there might be bit of ackshon. I hope.’
No name. That’s what the barman said at Little Death when I was using the card.
The eleventh floor reeks of smoke and pulses with red light. As Hoodie crosses the threshold he stumbles and drops to his knees. The TV falls from his hands and crashes to the floor. A shard of black plastic flies off into the darkness. Wolfboy rushes forward to help as Hoodie rolls onto his side and curls into a protective ball.
Something makes me throw my arm out, stopping Wolfboy from leaving the elevator. I have just enough time to glimpse a second figure lying in wait, in the hallway, before the doors slam shut.