The Dungeon.
Stark went down at 5.30. He switched the lights on, but the lighting was poor, and flickered in some sections. He thought, jokingly, it was like descending into a movie set designed exclusively for slasher horror. The joke stopped when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
Jenny was right. It seemed to form the entire length and breadth of the building. Corridors, passages, lanes, all created from shelves lined with boxes. In each box, a minor history of legal matters. Sales, purchases. Commercial transactions. Leases. Divorces. Separations. Disputes. Litigation. Every conceivable legal situation. Including death – wills, estates. A smorgasbord of stuff.
Stark followed the instruction given by Des, as best he could. At the far end. He hadn’t been any more specific, and Stark hadn’t asked for clarification. Which end? The place was massive.
There – the table with the record book. The book wasn’t a book. Much more. It was a tome. Thick as an outstretched hand. Stark suddenly felt he was in an odd Dickensian world, where computers didn’t exist, the handwritten word being the only mode of communication. He picked it up, tucked it under his arm. It was like carrying a small vanity case.
Left or right? He had no idea. He went right. What the hell. He wound his way toward the “far end”. Here, the striplighting seemed to fade, as if on the verge of dying, but clinging on. A weak vestigial source of illumination. A glow, rather than a full light. Stark understood the reluctance of Jenny – and no doubt others – to descend to this place, after work, to venture into a labyrinth of shadows and dust.
On the shelf marked “C”. Des had been most specific. Stark scanned the shelves on either side. There! A postcard-sized plastic sheet, nailed into the wood, bearing one letter – C. Stark followed the passage to a far wall. There, empty blue plastic boxes piled up, waiting to be filled. Beside it, a metal stool. The glamorous side of the law, he thought ruefully.
Two boxes. It wouldn’t take long. An hour tops. As a gesture, he might even do three. After all, what the hell else was he doing? His social calendar was a bleak affair.
He heaved a box off a middle shelf, heavy with files. The box was cardboard, and sagged with mould. He dropped it to the floor beside the stool, and sat, the record book on his lap. He reached down, pulled out the top file. The front bore a general description, written in felt pen –
Rebecca Chatham – sale of 29 Blair Avenue, Glasgow
He flicked through the contents. The file was over forty years old. He wondered, briefly, if Rebecca was alive or dead, where she’d gone, what had happened in her life. He would never know.
He recorded the details in the book, tossed the file in a blue box. Rebecca Chatham, destined for destruction.
Stark, hunched on the stool, ploughed through the files. Their age varied, ranging from ten to sixty years old, each dealing with different matters. Segments of strangers’ lives. An hour passed. The second blue box was almost full. He abandoned the idea of doing another. The place was altogether too creepy to linger. One more file, he decided, then home.
He came to another, which puzzled him –
Debora Ferry – executory.
Put in the wrong box, he assumed. A misfile. Somebody didn’t know their alphabet. He would leave it to the side. He hesitated. He was curious, for a reason he was unable to explain. It was coloured a deep and vibrant red, its texture embossed, suggesting a more expensive make. A file to catch the eye. He opened it.
The firm had dealt with the winding up of Debora Ferry’s estate. She had died ten years ago. She was married. She had no children. She and her husband owned a house. Some small savings. No other assets. She had died relatively young – thirty-six. Her original death certificate was in the file. Stark gazed at it.
Cause of Death – Asphyxia by Hanging.
He touched the words gently with the tip of his finger. He could feel the faint imprint of the typing. His mouth felt dry. He swallowed. A noise, soft as a whisper, from the next aisle. The flutter of wings? He paused, remained still. The noise did not reoccur. Stark closed the file, laid it on the floor. He felt cold. The place had a bad feel. Beside him, two full blue boxes, as required. Time to get the hell out.