Slade was in the incident room when the call came through. He was standing by the whiteboard. Sitting would have implied inertia, and he wanted to be seen to be doing something, even though there was very little at the moment he could do. He deliberately avoided looking at DC Nandu’s empty desk. That would have distracted him with rage, and he needed to think very clearly right now.
He was staring at Whitley as the DS pored over his video nasty research, checking synopses of all the films on the DPP 39 list in some vain hope that a clue might be there, some hint as to where the murdering bastards had holed up.
Whitley continued to scribble notes next to each title.
“I want details of every location used in these films, Trev. Whether it’s a wood cabin, park, tenement block or public fucking toilet, I wanna know about it. No matter how irrelevant or insignificant you might think it is, note it down. The fuckers seem to be treating these films as their manual. We can do the same.”
Whitley carried on annotating as he spoke, “There’s quite a few concentration camps on the list, guv. I’m guessing they’re not hiding low in Auschwitz or Buchenwald.”
“And cut out the fucking sarcasm. This is deadly serious. A girl’s life is at stake, and probably many more if these lunatics aren’t brought in soon. Not to mention my career…” he paused, then poked a finger at Whitley. “And yours, Trev, old son. So crack the fuck on, and get me something I can stick my teeth into. Or we’ll both be back in uniform…only the hats we’ll be wearing will have big yellow M’s stitched on the front and we ain’t never gonna get rid of the smell of burgers.”
With that dire warning ringing in his ears, Whitley dutifully cracked the fuck on.
Some locations were extremely unlikely, if not impossible. He crossed out all the Nazi films (three); ones set in far-flung locations (Mardi Gras Massacre); the cannibal capers set in exotic jungles (two); goat-shagging films set in Greece (one); extraordinary adventures in the Himalayas involving Yetis and Werewolves (one!); and zombie extravaganzas set on Caribbean islands (one). Whitley had seen the last one himself when a teenager. He remembered the stupefying scrap between shark and zombie, but didn’t think the film could add anything to the case beyond being an ironic prop held by Wallace’s unearthed old man.
He cross-checked the films against locations most likely to be available in the UK, particularly the south west, and compiled a generic list—deserted schools, slaughterhouses, laboratories, abandoned houses of all description—and popped them all into a search engine. Slade seemed satisfied for the moment and left him to it.
That was when Tommy’s call sent the shit all over the place.
“Slow down!” Slade barked into his cell. “I can’t understand what you’re saying. What the fuck do you mean a horror festival? How did you manage to not mention this to me before? What part of ‘tell me everything you know’ did you not understand? You forgot? Well, that’s okay then. Let’s hope the killers forget to make your girlfriend the newest star of their video nasty re-enactments, or whatever the fuck they’re doing. Just…stop freaking out. Ring your friend back and tell him to get out of there, taking as many people as he can, without causing a mass panic. I’ll get the local boys round there pronto.” He clicked his fingers over at Whitley who rose from his desk. “And don’t you get any fucking ideas about going up there yourself. We’ll take it from here.” He cut the connection and rounded on the DS.
“Trev. Get the fuck up to Burnley. That wanker Wallace forgot to inform us about a horror film festival taking place there right now. And guess what? It’s only showcasing a certain low budget film starring the late Mark Hamm. Now Mr. Wallace is of the opinion that this might be a significant cause for concern, as it seems to be the premiere of this sick piece of shit. I happen to agree with him. I don’t know what to expect. But I can always count on one thing, and that’s finding an overflowing septic tank at the end of every rainbow. Bound to be trouble of some kind, if this sick film’s involved. So take some DCs with you. I’ll get the local force over there right away.” He noticed a look of confusion on Whitley’s normally stoic face. “Yes? What’s wrong?”
“Burnley, guv?”
“Yes, Burnley. I don’t fucking know where it is either. Lancashire somewhere. Coal pits, flat caps and whippets. Look it up on a fucking map on your way. Or better still, join the fucking twenty-first century and use your sat nav. Just get the fuck up there.”
Whitley glanced at the clock on the office wall. Slade caught that too. “Yeah, five o’clock, Trev. Which means you won’t get up there til at least eight. So you’re gonna miss Eastenders I’m afraid. Get going!”
“You not coming, guv?”
Slade had already discounted that idea. “This could be another diversion, like the one that took our eyes off the ball at Malmesbury. Not gonna let that happen again. I’m staying down here right next to our friend Wallace. Because I have a strong hunch he’s gonna be at the centre of any action.” He reached for his office phone, intending to alert the Burnley police force, Manchester too. He looked up to see Whitley carefully tucking his Parker pen inside his jacket pocket. “You still here, Trev? You and me are gonna have a serious falling out if you take any longer getting your fat ass out of this office.”
He snatched up the phone, and began hitting buttons as Whitley strode out of the office with as much dignity as he could muster.
Tommy spent a minute seriously toying with the idea of ignoring Slade altogether, getting in his car and driving up to Burnley right there and then. He had visions of the director and his monstrous video nasty henchmen introducing the premiere of his film on stage before sending his bully boys out to rough up the audience. Jasmine might even be there, to be offered up as a sacrifice or whatever sick act the man might have in mind for her. But two things stopped him. The first was that he knew if anything was going to happen it would be all over anyway by the time he got up North to Burnley. The other reason: he had a sneaky (not to mention disturbing) conviction that the killers had something else in store for Tommy, and that he wouldn’t need to travel 300 odd miles to find it. However he did remember Slade’s instructions regarding Wayne, and promptly thumbed the recall button. He got a dial tone, then two, three rings. Surely, the silly fuck hadn’t ignored him and switched off his phone to settle down and enjoy the movie.
The fourth ring did the business.
“Alright?” The northerner sounded confused, but very much alive.
“Did you do what I told you to and get the fuck out?”
“Well no. Of course not.” Wayne sounded indignant. “Just because you’ve been at the centre of all the action, doesn’t mean you have to start getting paranoid. I paid fifty quid for this festival. Just calm down and have a cup of tea. You’ve been through a lot. There’s nothing to fret about. It’s just a film.”
Tommy squeezed the cell ’til the plastic creaked. “Wayne, listen to me very carefully. You need to get up out of your seat right now and tell the festival organiser or the projectionist, or whoever the fuck will listen to you, to switch the film off. Then you need to get everyone to leave the cinema. You need to do this right now, Wayne. This is direct instructions from Slade. Trust me, he is not taking this lightly either.”
There was a lengthy pause on the other end. Tommy could hear someone shushing Wayne. He could also hear the soundtrack of the film: footsteps, some ragged breathing—and while he couldn’t tell whether the frantic breathing was from a male or female, it undeniably encapsulated the sound of fear—the odd crash and thud, but no music. A work print, of course. Unfinished, Wayne had said. Then his friend came back on, his voice lowered into a whisper, “You’re getting me in trouble here, Tommy. I’m actually getting shushed! First time ever…” He giggled a trifle nervously.
“Are you seriously not fucking listening to me!” Tommy closed his eyes, and pressed his head against the cool wall of his living room. Then he spoke more calmly, his words measured, clear. “Wayne, how long have you known me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Ten years? Eleven? In that time have I ever bullshitted you? Have I ever fucked you around?”
“Once or twice, yeah!” came the emphatic reply. “What about that time I was tripping out of my head on ecstasy at yours and you still made me drive all the fucking way back to Burnley!” His voice was angrier and louder now. “Just because you were worried Trish would find out what we’d been up to. Some friend you were. I could have been killed.”
“Exactly. You could have been killed. But you weren’t. Not that time, Wayne. Now I’m making amends for that day. I’m making it up to you if you’ll just let me. If you ever want to see Burnley play again, you had better just fucking listen…” His voice was going weird because the tears were coming. He had to remain in control. But Wayne wasn’t listening.
“You’re making me miss the film, you know. I think you’re just jealous because you’re not centre of attention right now. I know you’ve been through a terrible time, mate, but this ain’t all about you. Now shut the fuck up and let me watch it…” There was a pause. Then, “It’s not very good. I know it’s advertised as an unfinished film ‘by a maverick new wunderkind of underground cinema’” His voice took on a sarcastic tone, “…but this is a bit rough. Oh, there’s your mate, Hamm. And fuck it, he’s certainly living up to his name. Hang on…Ouch. That was actually pretty nasty. I can see what the director’s aiming for, but it’s quite primitive. Bit of a Snuff copycat, if you ask me, although it does have a certain…atmosphere. You still there?”
“Wayne, I don’t want your commentary. I want you to do as I say, and get out. Please. If you’re my friend, you’ll do it. You’re right, this isn’t about me (oh but it so was); it’s about you saving your own silly, northern neck. I don’t want you to die. I really fucking don’t.” He’d quashed the incipient tears, but not the awful premonition of catastrophe he felt (knew) was imminent.
Wayne still wasn’t listening. He seemed to be getting a thrill out of letting Tommy know what he was missing. It was as if his friend felt left out by Tommy making all the papers and now wanted to relish his very own role, however small, in the unfolding drama. “Like I said, you’re worrying about nothing. There’s no director or evil maniacs present, just the film. And the more I watch it…” his whisper tailed off.
“Wayne! Wayne! Are you still there?”
Distantly, as if his friend were nodding slowly off to sleep, or in a day dream. “Yeah… Still here…chill out, Tommy boy… I’m really starting to…”
“What? Starting to what? Wayne, get off the phone and tell everyone to get out. Please. While you still have the chance!”
“I feel a bit…weird.” Wayne was sounding even more distant now. His whisper became practically inaudible, then suddenly was back in range for his next words: “This film is seriously fucked up… I’ve never seen anything…like it…fuck. Fuck. It’s almost as if…”
Tommy felt the frustration exploding inside him. The one thing keeping him from slamming his cell against the wall was the fact Slade would almost certainly have contacted the local constabulary by now and they would be on their way. Wayne would be okay. Tommy could trust Slade. Couldn’t he?
“As if there’s something nasty in the…” Wayne’s whisper was coming and going now. Like he was tripping, “…in the celluloid itself. That’s seriously fucked, man. This film has power. There’s evil embedded in the print. I can feel it. I can see it… Do you get what I’m…” Drifting again. Losing him, thought Tommy. Something was happening up there. The audience was being subjected to some kind of suggestive influence, and there was nothing he could do to stop—
“Seriously evil,” said Wayne, in a tone of almost grudging respect. “Can’t talk now, Tommy. I’m watching…”
“Noo! Don’t watch! Jump out of your seat, Wayne my old friend, and get out of there. If you ever thought anything of me, do this now. For me. For your old buddy. Please.”
“Someone’s entered the cinema late,” Wayne was saying in that same tripped-out tone. “That’s weird…that’s very fucking weird.”
“What’s happening? Wayne!” When the fuck would the local coppers arrive? Surely they must be nearly there by now. A horrible thought: if Slade had contacted them, that was. Or would he be a complete dick and try to do the job all by himself? But it would take him hours to drive to Burnley…
“Some fucker’s just come into the screening room…” Wayne giggled again—just like the time they were tripping on magic mushrooms, Tommy thought. “He’s dressed in a black boiler suit and a ski mask. Reminds me of something. Oh, and he’s got a wheelbarrow with him. He’s pushing it…up the central aisle…towards the stage. Big bastard. And the barrow…it’s full of…” Here his voice dropped out again. Tommy pressed his ear against the sweaty plastic in a frantic effort to hear.
“Full of what, Wayne? Full of WHAT?”
“Tools. The barrow’s full of work tools…”