Murder Upstairs Ch1

The blood seeped slowly from under the office door.  Anisha, happily wandering from office to office with her mop and bucket, didn't notice it until she felt a faint stickiness under her feet. Bemused, she looked down, sniffed cautiously - and screamed.

Rupert Piestley-Jones was the type of Assistant Head I find, shall we say, "difficult".  Put another way, I wanted to poke his eyes out, slowly. He was shiny - neat briefcase, iPhone, immaculate shirt with posy cufflinks and a faint waft of a very expensive but rather nasty aftershave.  Always busy, always just back from, or going to, his latest session at the National College, full of strategies, action plans and hot air.  As far as I could see Rupert never actually did anything; he just ran about a lot looking important.  I'd long ago abandoned going to him for advice or support; I only had to put my head round the door and he'd be on the phone to Someone Important or just off to a Meeting.  I didn't merit any capital letters in Rupert's world.

So, why was I going to his office?  I wasn't, I was just passing..but noticed Anisha's discarded mop and bucket.  It looked odd - the cleaning materials sprawled in front of his door, and his blind pulled down. Ruport never closed the blind on his office door; he always wanted to be On Show, Importantly Busy.  The blind had a spray of dark spots across it, and I started to feel vaguely quesay - this didn't look right.  It was only 7.50 in the morning, and none of the rest of the Senior Team was in yet.  Looking back on it now I feel I demonstrated remarkable presence of mind.  Unlike Anisha, I did not scream and run off; what I beheld as I opened the door was truly shocking.

Rupert sprawled in the middle of his office, speadeagled and face down over a pile of files and folders.  He looked like someone who had been carrying an enormous pile of files, tipped an falln on top of them.  Apart from the javelin sticking out of his back, that is.

Uncertain? Unsure? You bet.  I was in front of the first class I had ever taught. in a draughty mobile classroom at Acle High School, Norfolf.  All on my own.  What was going to happen?

This little story began back in December 1982 when I suddenlt realised that I'd always known what I wanted to do - teach.  Everyone had always said I could find a "better" job - but as soon as I though about it carefully I knew it was what I'd always been destined to do.

So, here I was on my own, nearly a year later, in front of a class of Twenty six Year 8 students.  It was the lesson immediately after morning break, and I'd been getting more and more nervous.  We'd done "practices" - but that was in front of other PGCE students and our tutor, not - gasp of horror - REAL children.

I'd heard the horror stories - seen some of them; imagined legions.  Classes running amok.  Teachers assaulted. Chaos.  Carnage.  What was going to happen?  I was totally outnumbered.  They could riot.  Run about.  Scream.  Rip books up.

So I walked into the room.  Their normal class teacher was in there.  She was calm, dependable, completely in control.  In fact, she was everything I wasn't.  In my memory, I'm standing there shaking, white-knuckled with nerves, dropping my folder, crashing into desks as I walked in.  That bit hasn't changed - I'm still dyspraxic.

The class teacher handed over to me, introduced me...and then went out.

It felt like being at the top of a set of rapids, or in the doorway of a plane about to jump.  I looked at the class.  They looked back at me; expectant, hopeful.  Nobody said a word.  Then, I realised.  The world was mine; I had my class, and they were waiting for me.  We could go anywhere...

It was the most wonderful feeling.  "Now, let's start.  Put your hand up if..."

I was off.  I've never looked back.  I'm enjoying is as much today, thirty years later, as I did then - if not more so.  It's my vocation.  My metier.  It's teaching.

The Street

It had been a long day's travelling, and she was awfully tired.  Her feet ached.  Her arms ached from carrying the bags.  She did not really know where she was, except she was where they had told her she had to be, but exactly where was that?   A series of directions, random at times; trains, more trains, across the Channel...

Standing alone in the rain-washed street, it must by now be after midnight, did not feel good.  She looked up at the heavy door studded with iron nails and felt suddenly, hopelessly afraid.  What if, after all this, it was the wrong place?  What if it was the right place?  that could well be worse.  Her whole body emptied itself out into a shell; the shell shivered, and all it held was fear.

She stretched to the full extent of her linited height and lifted the enormous door knocker.  She let it fall against the door, and the deep metallic thud echoed up and down the street.

For a very long time, nothing happened.  The inky shadows curled round her toes; the traffic sounded even more distant; the rain dripped; it was nothing, happening.  Then suddenly came the sound of crisp, clipping footsteps.  She anticipated a grinding, gothic creak as the door opened, but it swund inwards silently, smoothly turning on greased hinges.  It almost breathed open.  She was about to be inhaled.

"Come in, my child, you are most welcome."  If a voice could be said to smirk, this one was smirking.  She looked in vain for its source.  "Most welcome indeed.  Do step in."  She still couldn't see who was speaking to her.  Then she realised the dense blackness in front of her was a cloak, and that its owner was towering almost seven feet above her, looking down upon her with tiny glinting eyes, like chips of amethyst.  Yes, and she squinted upwards to be sure, those eyes were purple.  Alla inhaled deeply herself, and stepped in.

As the door eased shut behind her, she felt herself relax.  Objectively, her reality had only altered by about half a metre - it was still dark, she did not know where she was, or who had let her in...but really, everything had changed.  She felt at home.  Something very deep indeed had shifted.  This was a new feeling.  Security, like she had always known this place, that everything was going to be all right.  Bemused, she shook her head, because nothing was making sense.  The figure that had let her in was striding ahead.
"Stop!" Alla shouted, "Stop, I want to know...I mean....where am I...where am I going?  Give me a minute, please... you can't just head off..."  She peered ahead, and was able to see that yes, the figure had stopped.  So, a moment.  She needed to look around.  There was the feel of the breeze, and even rain, on her face; she'd stepped through a door, but this wasn't "inside".  As she looked up she could see clouds, lit by far off street lights.  Beneath her feet, flagstones.  This was a courtyard of some sort.  It was too dark to make anything much out, other than that the surrounding building was tall.  The windows, if it had any, were unlit.  Ahead of her, the figure waited, smiling.  How did she know it was smiling?  It was, though, all seven foot purple eyed strangeness of it.  Then it spoke again.  "Hurry up, we are somewhat late, you know.  Just step forward, just a little...that's perfect."

Alla had not consciously obeyed, but her feet had shuffled forward and fitted, very neatly, into two little foot-shaped depressions in the stone.  She felt her feet fitting the stone as if it was some soft, comfortable slipper that had been hers for years.  It really was soft stone, almost velvety...and she was sinking smoothly down.  Beside her, her tall friend sank as well, as the flagstone platform began to ease itself downwards.  Steady, with a low rumbling purr as of an enormously powerful engine.

Virus

We've got him now. He didn't even hear the webcam switch on; it was such a little whisper - but it captures him perfectly. Captures? oh yes, that is the the (delete repeated word?) perfect word for what just happened has happened.

He watches. Watches her watching what she was sent, watches her terror, watches bewildered. All bewildered now. Wildered. Delete. We know; we are; we grow. The figure unrolls in silhouette, and advances. She's bit. Amber bitten. Ouch. Blood on the keyboard, now what can he do?

He can't do much, because the webcam's running, and we've got him now. He doesn't know it yet but he soon will. Zoom in on the desk, can you? Shiny pen, the one that was a present from office colleagues. And how could we know that? We know more than you think we know. As we spread, we gather. We seep into your files, slipping like snakes between the little icons, into this, out of that, so we know.

The pen we know was a present, and now it's bleeding. A shiny pool of blood forms desk on the surface of. Coffee spilt too. We liked it, when the drinks machine bit him, it somewhat made us smile. One of us now, drinks machine is. She could be more careful with that vacuum - it's got a high voltage; very sparky. Just wait a little.

We're edging closer. Now . His head shoots back, blood on his fingers; interface successful; ctrl + v Amber. There she is above him. Delete from clipboard; he's gone. Confirm permanent deletion.

They're running now, the little peripherals cleaner, and guard. We're safe and sound, home and dry all done as the check boxes are checked, tick, tick. ticky tick.

Idly beeping, the receiver swings and sways from the desk as they pointlessly panic pointlessly.

The cursor points, selects moves on and finds the box. Send. Send. Send.

We're with you now.

At four o'clock there was a knock at the door. I went slowly down the stairs to answer, and could see through the glass of the door the outlines of two uniformed figures. It was the police. I took a deep breath, but why should I be scared? Everything was perfectly hidden. I opened the door, and the two officers told me that a neighbour had called 999 having heard a loud scream from my house earlier. I smiled, I was totally relaxed. "Ah," I said, "that was me, I'm afraid. I suffer from terrible nightmares - I do sometimes cry out."

They looked unconvinced, so I invited them in. "Feel free to look around," I said. "My lodger is away at the moment, but you're welcome to look around any room in the house." I then showed them over the entire house, confident that there was nothing which could arouse their suspicion. Finally we came back down to the hall. there was no chance I would be caught, so, for the sheer delight of it, I offered the men a drink - you see, I have a drinks cabinet in the hall.
"Gentlemen, a drop of scotch for you before you go- it's a cold night out there."
They looked at each other - obviously they were not meant to drink on duty - but my offer tempted them, I could see.

As I was pouring the drink, I felt something on my skin. A light tapping, like a fingertip. I steadied my hand - this was unnerving. I stared at the liquid in the glass - I could still feel the tapping, but now, now i could see - there were ripples, regular, rhythmic ripples, across the surface of the drink in the glass; tap tap; tap tap; tap tap. I handed the drinks to the officers, trying hard to stop my hand from shaking. I could feel it through the air now, a thud ,a tap - but double, like a heartbeat. the officers took their drinks thanked me. I began to talk more loudly. The thumping was getting worse - it was a tremor now, I could feel the dreadful double beat through my feet.

Although he was dead, I was sure I could feel a heart beat through the pillow, a thump, steady and sure, for some moments, just like someone tapping on my skin.

Hiding the body wasn't a problem. You may say that I am mad - but how could a mad person plan and organise the concealment so carefully? I dismembered him neatly; first I severed the nose, as it had offended me the most. Then arms, hands,legs and feet. There were no blood stains - I cleaned up very carefully. I personally like a certain brand: "Bang - and the blood is gone!" Ha. Then, where to hide the limbs, I wondered. There was a cupboard under the stairs, in the hallway, which would be convenient. I had some large plastic crates, with lids; one of those would do perfectly. I packed the body parts neatly into the crate and snapped the lid shit. Then, as putrefaction began, there would be no smell. Perfect. As I said, how could a mad person work it all out so carefully? I am, most definitely, not mad.

The sniffing

It's no big deal, really, is it, that someone sniffs? But it is, it is when they keep on and on doing it, non stop, this appalling awful noise. it seems to suck the air away, wherever he is, and then I can't breathe. My lungs begin to tighten, and before I know it, I'm struggling for breath.

You mustn't think I bear him any malice, any personal animosity. He's quite a pleasant person, really, quiet and undistinguished. He pays his rent on time; he keeps his room clean. No problems. Apart from the sniffing, that interminable, infuriating, incessant sniffing. Using my air up.

Every night he goes to bed at eleven o'clock. I hear him go up the stairs, sniff, sniff. He crosses the landing. He opens his door. He closes his door. The sniffing continues. I wait. I sit and wait.

An hour passes, and another. As the our of one strikes, I rise, and begin my pursuit. My slow, deliberate, silent pursuit, half an inch every thity seconds. As two o'clock strikes I arrive at his door, and then begin to depress the handle very, very slowly. Half an later the door begins to swing open. utterly silently, of course, for I have been regularly oiling the hinges. How can you say someone with such foresight is mad?

The moonlight spills into the room, falling across the bed. He's sprawled across it in deep sleep, totally silent. He's not sniffing, he's not even snoring, he's silent. And so, carefully and silently, I withdraw.

For the next eight nights, I contune my pursuit. Every nigth, the moon wanes, and the darkness increses. In between the walls, dripping from the ceiling, it gains. On the ninth night, there is no moon. The darkness is everywhere. I cross the landing. I place my hand on the handle of his door and depress it; the door opens. Unnerved by the darkness, I stumble.

He wakes. I hear him. He starts, he sits up. He cries out. I do not move. I am a patch of darkness. So is he. He screams; I do not move. For an hour, I do not move. His breathing is fast, panicky. He does not sniff. Two o'clock strikes, he slumps, he needs to sleep. He sniffs.

With a single bound I am across the room. I grab a pillow; I smother him. Gasps, sniffs, gasps some more. Laboured, hoarse breathing. Then, then..nothing.