Little Boy Blue

74

‘Samantha?’

The music was deafening, drowning out Charlie’s voice. Outside the flat, it had been unpleasant and jarring, within the flat it was horrendous – the insistent, high-pitched computer beat and thumping bass arrowing straight through her. Charlie’s first instinct on entering had been to turn back – her head throbbed and she felt unsteady on her feet, the vibrations crawling up through her bones, but she was here for a reason and was determined to see it through.

‘SAMANTHA?’

Her cry was once again lost in the audio barrage swirling round her. This was the third or fourth time she’d called her name now without response, so summoning her courage she pressed on. It was dark in the flat and the carpet was old and ruffled up in places, making it fertile ground for trips and slips. Charlie found a light switch on the wall to her right, but the low-energy light bulb emitted only a weak, yellowing light that barely helped.

Ploughing on, Charlie came to a doorway. Cautiously, she poked her head inside to find a deserted kitchen. The fridge door hung open and a pile of dirty pots clogged the sink. It didn’t look as if the room had been used for some time. Directly opposite was another door, this time leading to a tiny, faded bathroom. Again it was deserted and the small room smelt so overpoweringly of vomit that Charlie beat a hasty retreat.

Once more, Charlie hesitated. The source of the noise seemed to be further down the corridor, which arced round to the left ahead, disappearing from view. This was the bowels of the flat – hidden from public view – and Charlie was suddenly nervous of what she might find there.

Pulling her baton from its holster, she moved forward. There was not enough room in this place to extend it properly, you’d never get a proper swing, so she kept it short. Experience had taught her that this often worked best when it came to hand-to-hand combat in confined spaces.

She made her way carefully down the corridor. The further you got from the front door, the darker it became and she had to feel her way round the corner. The floorboards creaked loudly beneath her feet, threatening to give way, so Charlie upped her pace, eventually coming to a door that hung ajar. A sliver of light crept from within, illuminating a faded poster of a topless model that hung on the exterior of the door. Any beauty or glamour the image might have once possessed was lost now under the welter of depraved graffiti which covered it.

Taking a breath, Charlie grasped the handle and pushed the door open. This time the wave of sound knocked her back on her heels. It felt like she’d been struck, but gritting her teeth she stepped forward. The sight that met her eyes took her breath away.

The small room was in a terrible state of repair – bare boards, peeling plaster and exposed wiring hanging from the walls. There was no bed, no furniture – instead the room was piled high from floor to ceiling with dolls. Barely an inch of space was visible beneath the avalanche of painted faces, frills and stuffed limbs. Charlie stood still – she felt as if dozens of lifeless eyes were now fixed on her, chiding her for her intrusion.

Now the dolls were moving. Charlie took a step back, raising her baton in defence, flicking it out to its full length. The mound of dolls parted suddenly and from beneath them a figure emerged. It was Samantha but not as Charlie had seen her before. She was naked now, her pale form decorated only by the livid bruises on her ribs and the smeared mascara that had dried in streams on her face. Her expression was lifeless, her eyes cold and when she opened her mouth, Charlie could see that her teeth were yellow and brown. She looked the intruder up and down, then said:

‘I’ve been expecting you.’