that it showed in the steering. He tightened his grip on the wheel, looked away from the theatre, brought the car to a screeching halt in front of the entrance and resolved that this was no time to let his hang-ups get to him. He was going in, come what may.
He’d made good time. He stepped out and looked around. He could hear a siren wailing not far off, but no response cars had arrived.
This was it, then. He was going in, alone and in darkness.
A side entrance would be best. This side of the Garrick’s Head in the paved alley were two doorways with the Victorian signs for “Pit” and “Gallery” still engraved above them. Hell or heaven? He chose hell. He fished in his pocket and – after a galling moment of doubt whether he’d brought it with him
– took out the card with the door codes. He stepped back from the shadow to catch some faint illumination from the streetlamps in Saw Close. He could just read the combination.
The lock on the door was a bigger challenge. There wasn’t enough light to make out the numbers. In the days of cigarette lighters, he’d have known what to do. After sinking to his knees for a closer look, he still couldn’t see enough.
Smash the door down? He might have to. But he didn’t want to announce his arrival in such an obvious way.
Resourceful as always in an emergency, he felt in his pocket for his mobile, opened it fully and the light was enough to see by. He stabbed in the code, pushed the door inwards and closed it behind him without a sound.
Total darkness. Good thing he knew he was in the corridor to the left of the auditorium. He’d be acting on memory from this point on. Maybe as his eyes adjusted he’d be able to make out a little more. Two tentative steps forward and he reached out and felt his palms against a cold, glassy surface that moved. He’d almost knocked a picture off the wall. He turned away and took a step left, a longer one than he intended. The floor was raked, like the auditorium.
By a series of shuffling steps he progressed down the slope as far as the door he remembered going through to enter the stall seating area. On reaching out, he found it was already ajar. Either the young officers or the killer must have come this way. The advantage was that he could pass through silently.
Dawn Reed had said on the phone that she was crouching between rows of seats, but where? He groped his way forward until he felt the padded arm of a seat and then grasped it while he listened for some sign of life.
Absolute silence.
He made a throat-clearing sound that wouldn’t carry far at all. If she was close and heard him she might respond.
Nothing.
He looked around him. His eyes were adapting because he could make out the nearest row of seat backs, the vertical pillar of the proscenium structure and the curve of the royal circle. Yet he was getting a sense he was alone in this theatre, and with it came the suspicion that he was too late.
He could see enough now to move along the gangway to check whether Dawn Reed was still hiding between the rows of seats as he’d ordered. He would surely make out the dark form of someone crouching. She’d said the front stalls. He checked them all, going way past the front section, under the overhang of the royal circle and then across and down the other side.
She wasn’t there.
Failure overwhelmed him. He’d obviously got here too late. Those hours in his office dissecting the statements had taken too long. Twenty minutes earlier and he’d have saved her.
Then he heard a small sound. Something had fallen and hit the floor not far away. In an old building like this it could have been boards contracting, or a fragment of plaster dropping off a damaged section of ceiling. A mouse could have dislodged something.
The sound had come from up on the stage. Up to now he’d avoided looking there. He turned.
His nightmare. The huge velvet curtains presented by the Chaplin family hung across the proscenium, thirty feet in length, crimson and gold when the lights were up, black as sin right now and he knew for certain that Paloma had been right about the fear he’d had since childhood. He was terrorised by curtains, drawn curtains hiding something unimaginably bad.
Pull them aside, Peter Diamond, and see what you get.
The shakes began. They started in his hands and spread rapidly through his entire body. Exceptional conditions, the dark, the solitude, the cold surroundings, his closeness to the curtains and the absolute necessity of seeing behind them, combined to make this experience more alarming than any of his previous panic attacks.
Get a grip, Diamond. This is your trauma. Engage with it. Analyse. Understand.
He stared at the place where the curtains met. His heart thumped against his ribcage. An image was forming in his brain.
As an eight-year-old he was back in the farmhouse his family had rented for their Welsh holiday. Night-time: his sleep disturbed by a strange sound between a bellow and a howl of pain, repeated several times over. Driven to discover more, he’d got out of bed and crept downstairs. The sound was close by, outside the house.
In the living room, a modern feature had been added, most likely as a selling point to visitors who rented the place, a floor-to-ceiling picture window that looked out across a field towards Snowdonia. A stunning view by day. By night long curtains were drawn across.
He had crossed the room and pulled the curtains aside.
He pictured what he’d suppressed all these years: the massive head of a beast with gaping, blood-red jaws and hairy lips drooling saliva in long threads. A huge pink lolling tongue. Manic staring white-edged eyes. And devilish horns.
He’d seen it as a child and never wanted a sight of it again.
Stay with it, Diamond.
