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Reilly glanced upwards. “What the hell is that shit playing in the background?”
“No idea,” said Gardener, following his partner’s gaze, “but for some reason it sounds familiar.”
Reilly nodded to continue. “Let’s get moving, otherwise we’ll be here all night.”
Gardener nodded, walking to the end of the corridor before venturing the only way he could, to the right. The end of that corridor led him into turning left. When they reached the end of that one, they had a choice.
Gardener stopped. The music was still bothering him. He definitely had no idea of the song or the band but the familiarity was haunting.
“What now, boss?”
Gardener’s phone sprung into life. He pulled it out of his pocket and noticed Dave Rawson’s number.
“There’s a door at the back, boss and it’s open, do you want us to go inside?”
“I think not, Dave. You and Colin stay at the door and make sure no one leaves. We’re not sure yet if this place is booby trapped in any way and I don’t want either of you risking your lives.”
“Sure?” asked Rawson.
“Yes,” replied Gardener.
“Will do.”
Gardener put the phone back in his pocket. “Right, Sean, time to split up. You take the left and I’ll go to the right.”
Reilly nodded but before he set off, Gardener spoke to him.
“And, Sean? No heroics. If there’s anything you don’t like the look of, get on the phone.”
Reilly nodded.
Gardener figured he’d be better off talking to the wooden panels. He walked further down the corridor, took a right and came across a door. He wasn’t too happy about the situation but he suspected he knew Roger Hunter well enough not to have rigged the place with explosives or anything dangerous. Hunter was on a mission and Gardener and Reilly were not a part of it.
Gardener opened the door and stepped into the cavern of the warehouse. As the door closed it suddenly hit him why the music was familiar.
It was strange and haunting and the lyrics contained something about the night, and turning right. And when something clicked in his head there would be trouble ahead.
Chapter Sixty-one
Liverpool, 1992, the Big Top all over again.
Or it might as well have been.
He was surrounded by mirrors. Tall ones, short ones, wide ones; round mirrors, oval mirrors, square mirrors. Wooden frames, metal frames, gilt edged surrounds. Frames with different colours: black, gold, white, chrome. The whole place was filled with mirrors and it was a fucking mess, like Anthony’s mind.
The overhead lights were reflected in each and every one of them. Some of the mirrors were normal and others were fairground attractions. He had seen a dozen different reflections of himself: normal, short, fat and dumpy with little or no head. Stretched out like the Peperami Man. He’d seen himself wide, thin; little legs, long legs. You name it, every variation possible he had seen.
Where the fucking hell had Roger Hunter found all of these? Some were free-standing, others were in corridors – some of them actually formed corridors instead of the wooden panels. Anthony would be lucky if he ever found his way out of the building.
But he wasn’t meant to. That wasn’t what Roger had in mind. Zoe, James and Michael were all dead. Logic stated that he would be next and it wasn’t because he was the only one left. Anthony had to die whatever the running order.
How to survive was the major problem here. Not only was the hall of mirrors unsettling him, the music was doing little for his state of mind. He had never heard that song on a good day, and doubted he ever would.
He relived the fateful day back in Liverpool when he’d been parted from his mother. On his own it had been unsettling, but he could have coped because he knew she was in there somewhere. He knew she would come to his rescue.
She wouldn’t today, though. There was no fucker coming to save him today.
But the awful music had spelled doom and gloom from the first time he’d heard it, and had done ever since.
