Hell Alley. In the depths of winter when converted gas lamps throw shadows against blackened

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1 Hell Alley The Greenwich Phantom Turnpin Lane is dark and overbearing even on the sunniest August bank holiday. In the depths of winter when converted gas lamps throw shadows against blackened walls, when worn stone paving and sombre doorwells glisten with night-glazed frost, it becomes positively sinister. Art galleries and coffee shops never quite dispel the alley s former menace and the Coach & Horses, tucked beside Greenwich market, may have a smart new makeover, but its foundations lie in darker times. I was with my mates at the Plume of Feathers when Helen s text arrived. Got something important. Coach & Horses, asap. She was lucky I had the night off. Junior doctors don t normally get Christmas Eve, but I hadn t complained when my name was unexpectedly omitted from the roster. As I left the party hats, silly-string and So here it is, Merry Christmases, I couldn t help thinking Helen s texting me at all was odd. It wasn t like I knew her very well. Since arriving in Greenwich I d found myself fascinated by it. The place gets under your skin. To my surprise, a couple of weeks after starting at Queen Elizabeth Hospital I was tinkering round the Heritage Centre at the old arsenal, trying to find that something - that made Greenwich different. Different and slightly disturbing Helen, the assistant archivist, seemed to understand my curiosity. Perhaps she d been pleased someone so young interested in family history. She d promised to text me when she got the full search results for a Joseph Kay. The architect who d built the 1

2 market and who could be my ancestor. But Christmas Eve? That was well beyond the call of duty. It was eleven-fifteen, for God s sake. Wherever people were this Christmas Eve, they weren t at the Coach & Horses. It was as though the place just didn t want drinkers tonight. Not a string of tinsel, not a sprig of holly. And just one drinker. It wasn t Helen. Oh hell. My heart sank. Dr. Charles Hammerson. The psychiatrist crazier than his patients. We avoided him like the plague at QEH. I was surprised to see him anywhere as sociable as a public house. I was less surprised to see him alone. He looked up from his paper as I came in, squinting at me through an un-brushed mop of hair. Please don t let him recognise me. He scowled at me for a moment then went back to his paper. What ll it be? asked the guv nor. You ll need to drink it quick. I m closing eleven-thirty. Sharp. Helen had said it was important. A brandy. I m waiting for someone. Middleaged woman, dark hair, funny hat, bit nutty-looking- Helen Armitage. He shook his head. No not seen her yet. Yet? Let me buy that. I jumped. I hadn t noticed the girl arrive, but she was lovely. Long, blonde hair. Grey eyes. I looked around. No, she really was talking to me. Things were looking up. We re closed. The barman s voice was icy. Oh. She s with me, I said quickly. And I haven t finished ordering. I turned to her, smiling gallantly. What can I get you? 2

3 Gin. And, um, tonic. But I m buying. The guy glared at her, then me, but poured again. She crossed to the fire. All high heels and higher skirt. Suddenly it was August. You re out late, I said, handing her a glass. I m meeting someone. Here, I said I d get that... She held out some coins. In the corner of my eye Hammerson s wiry frame stiffened. No, really- I insist. She slipped her hand deep into my jeans pocket, looking into my eyes, her hand lingering. I felt the coins slide down into the fabric. I gulped. She withdrew her hand, but held my gaze. My mobile buzzed. A text. It could wait. So, um, do you come here often? My chat-up routine was a bit rusty. Every Christmas. Relatives, eh Yes. You know maybe you should hang around longer this time. Greenwich isn t bad you know. She smiled. I babbled on. Yeah it s full of history. Take this place. I waved in the general direction of the alley outside. Now that s really old. Medieval. It was the only lane they didn t destroy when they built the market in the 1820s, funnily enough by an ancestor of mine, would you believe it, and I m boring you, aren t I Of course not. Time! The bartender rang the bell with more force than really necessary. 3

4 My mobile buzzed again. It was Helen. In the gents. Urgent. The gents? What the hell was she doing in there? I hadn t seen her arrive. Bloody Hell. Just when my luck was in... Look, I have to nip out the back for a moment, I said to the girl. Wait for me. Oh, by the way, I turned. What s your name? Margaret. Nice. Old fashioned. Damn it, Ed. No one likes to be called old-fashioned. Come on, people, shouted the bartender. Wait for me, I pleaded. I ll be one moment. I went outside and immediately crashed into Hammerson. I d never realised how tall he was. He grabbed me, pinning both arms to my sides, dark eyes piercing into my own. The girl s mine, he hissed. Now hang on- She s my patient, you idiot. Leave her to me. He flung me away with such force I staggered into the gents, tripped and fell onto my knees. The door slammed after me. The lights went out. I heard the sound of sliding wood. The window was being closed. From the outside. Helen? My eyes grew accustomed to the dark; a little moonlight seeped through the opaque glass. Nothing. Just faint tapping sound and shadows playing at the window. I shivered. It was suddenly freezing in here. I yanked at the door handle. To my surprise it opened. I burst back into the bar. The place was chilly as a morgue and pitchdark. The girl. Where did she go? 4

5 How should I know? snapped the bartender s voice. I m looking for a sodding fuse. Come on, I ve got to lock up. Hardly was the door shut behind me than I heard the key grind in the lock, a heavy bolt drawing across and the blinds being pulled down. I shivered and turned away into the deep fog. Deep fog? It hadn t been foggy before. But here it was, right in the middle of the covered market, swirling and heavy and getting thicker by the second. My head swam. Standing under the only remaining streetlight, I felt exposed. Watched. Hello? My voice hung in the dead air then fell away. I looked down Turnpin Lane. The Old Royal Naval College was a blackened shadow in the east. West, towards Church Street, was even more forbidding. I could just make out the arched entrance, and, beyond it the dull, illuminated disc of St. Alfege s church clock, its hands folded. Virtually midnight. Around the corner the pub s side door clicked, then slammed. Hey! I called, but the barman s hurried footsteps were already distant. I was alone. But no. I heard another noise, the other way. Muffled gasps in the fog. Margaret? And that lunatic, Hammerson, I d be bound. I ran towards the scuffling sounds. There she was, pinned to a wall by Hammerson s giant frame. I lunged towards them. What the hell are you doing? Let her go! Hammerson shoved a writhing Margaret out of my way, a hand across her mouth. Ah, Kay. You might be some help after all; she s giving me a spot of bother. Dig into 5

6 my bag and grab the syringe there, will you? He might have been asking me to pass the salt. What? My mind swam. Hammerson was assaulting a beautiful young woman and not only did he think this was perfectly normal, he expected me to join in. And hang on he knew my name. Margaret continued to struggle; Hammerson held her down. Come on, man, I don t have all day! I made my decision. I took the bag with both hands, and belted Hammerson around the head. He fell. I grabbed her hand. This way! We ran towards the high street, but as we neared the end, a silhouetted figure appeared. I pulled up sharp and turned around. We ducked down the little passage that led to Nelson Road. Another figure appeared. Our exits were blocked. St. Alfege s bell began the Westminster Chimes. It was midnight. I turned towards the market. Something was happening. A wisp of air flashed past my cheek. My neck prickled. I wanted to turn away, but my muscles refused to move. The bells turned to the hour. One two a third, louder, joined the others then fell away, replaced by another. Four, Five The whole of Greenwich seemed to vibrate with the peals. Come. Margaret s voice was urgent, husky. She tugged my hand. I hesitated. In the soup-like blackness, shadows were moving among the mists within the market, taking form as the bells clanged on. My body was ice. I began to hear whispers, as though someone was tuning a radio. Spectral voices to go with the shadows before my eyes. Come on, hissed Margaret. 6

7 Something was pawing at my jacket. A half-formed human figure in rags touching me, lightly stroking, like a spider s web, dusting across my chest, my face. It held something out towards me like some kind of offering. I looked at it with horror. Margaret grabbed at the diaphanous form and thrust it away. It let out a cry as it fell. Thank you, I breathed. Come on! There s no time. My body stepped into swirling blackness behind her. As she walked, her skirt seemed to lengthen, to coarsen; her silken hair grew dark and coiled around her head. Around her slender shoulders the woollen cobweb of a shawl began to form. She walked. And I followed, like one possessed. We were in some kind of spectral maze. Unlit alleys, wreathed in a stinking mist. I could see them, and yet they were not there. Through them I could still make out the skeletal forms of half-demolished market stalls, but I was no closer to them than I was the moon. Shadows, ragged figures, stretched out to me, each holding some pathetic offering, fawning at my clothes. Beggars, tugging on my sleeve with feathery fingers, pleading and cursing in whispered gibberish, their touch cold and clammy, insubstantial, yet chilling to the bone. I glanced behind me. Turnpin Lane s lamp, far away, glowed dimly back. Three figures stood beneath it, watching, waiting. Chilly fingers of fog dragged me forward. Margaret, her hair now scraped back in a filthy linen cap, swatted the wraiths like flies; they dissolved into the murk. Then she too, slipped into the mist. Once more I was alone. 7

8 St Alfege s bells still rang in the distance but I no longer counted the chimes. Terror had dried my throat, yet my feet walked by themselves, further into phantom alleyways, under overhanging buildings. I had to get out. I gritted my teeth and turned towards the dim glow of Turnpin Lane s lamp, then forced my legs to run, blindly, through this warren of half-formed passages, mean courtyards and dank cut-throughs, looking for any way back, more lost with every moment. The stench was overwhelming. Doorways and shuttered windows crowded me, the odd wretched candle flickering in the gloom. At one dead end I ran straight into a line of rank washing, a spectral sheet winding itself around me like a shroud. My mouth formed a scream. Nothing came. Edward. Margaret was back at my side. My heart leapt and I turned to her in relief. Then my stomach retched. She had changed. Rheumy eyes were now ringed with the ravages of starvation; grey skin flaked from a diseased skull, greasy shreds of hair pulling away in lumps. She walked ahead, stiffly, determinedly. My feet followed. Who are you? I whispered. Margaret. Her voice was a croak. Where am I? Hell Alley. She stopped. The door was darker than any we d passed. She turned and smiled; bile shot to my throat. Her mouth was a mass of scabbed, weeping sores and bleeding, angry gums. John, she cracked. He s here. Come, whispered the darkness. Sit. 8

9 I sat as though drugged on a three-legged stool in the tiny room, the fire s single green flame lending no heat. The fog had permeated even here. In the darkness, my eyes met two more, glittering in the gloom. Any remaining warmth drained from my body. The eyes watched me. I began to make out sockets dark hollows in an ashen, sunken face; pursed, starved lips gasping for breath. It was a man. Rake-thin, lying on a filthy pallet, covered in a tattered sheet, more corpse than human. A clutching, wasted hand reached towards me. I drew back in horror. Margaret threw another coal onto the fire. A waft of sickly-smelling smoke rose into my nostrils, wound around me and mingled with the fog, muddling my mind even further. St Alfege s bells hammered into my head. I thank you, sir, rasped the invalid. What for? For allowing Margaret and me to be joined once more. You re wel- I stopped short. What did I do? It has been so long, Margaret put an icy hand on my shoulder. We have been apart yet now you have taken the settlement and- What settlement? The coins in your pocket. The Payment. What fo- my stomach turned. Now we will be together for eternity. Sweat trickled down my back. Would you take a cup of Geneva with us, Mr Kay? asked the man John. It was more death-rattle than voice. 9

10 To seal our happiness, added Margaret. After all, it is Christmas. Only right to toast the season. And our bargain. Pass it to our guest, Margaret. She lifted a dented tin beaker to my lips. I shook my head and set my mouth tight, straining from her bony grasp. Come, sir, you took the settlement, John s cadaverous frame suddenly rose toward me with a desperate, inhuman force, enveloping the entire room. Spindle arms stretched out spider-hands, a ghastly vision of rags and venom. You cannot refuse the exchange Skeletal fingers grabbed my jaw, and dragged it down as the flat of the other withered hand yanked at my forehead. Astringent liquid burned across my clenched lips. The coins Forcing myself away, I thrust a hand into my pocket to drag out the money and throw it at the wraiths. Around me, above me, through me, gossamer-thin figures loomed in, pulling at my clothes, my hair, my face, with a spectral strength as I struggled with them, the fog and the coins. Their eyes burned; their mouths gaped into vacant maws, all woven into St Alfege s clanging knell as I made one last desperate thrust for freedom. * Ed? Helen Armitage s voice came from somewhere above me. He s out cold, said Hammerson, prising open one of my eyes. Cold, hard cobbles pushed into my back. I was in the market, a few steps from the pub.. Did they get him? Helen knelt beside me I don t know. 10

11 We should have told him. It was crazy not to warn him he was right in the firing line. What, and scare him off? He s the one chance we have to combat this thing. Hammerson poked at my other eye. Get off me, you lunatic! I shook myself free and struggled to get up. What thing? What should you have told me? Who was she? Hammerson grimaced. Margaret? One of the pathetic, disease-ridden wretches displaced when the warren of filthy medieval passageways was swept away to build Greenwich Market. But that was in Yes and the very fact that you know that put you in danger. Your research drew attention to you. I don t get it. My head ached and something was digging into my leg. Okay, Helen said. This is going to sound weird After what I ve just seen? The deepest and darkest lane destroyed by Joseph Kay s developers was known by locals as Hell Alley, which- We ve known there s some kind of tear in time around this area for a while, interrupted Hammerson. A what? Helen sighed. Once a year, on Christmas Eve, while the bells of St Alfege call the faithful to Midnight Mass, the lost souls of Hell Alley may exchange places with a 11

12 living human willing to accept their hospitality. A few us work every Christmas Eve to try to prevent more lost souls slipping through. She looked embarrassed. It s not always very successful. Why don t you just ask the vicar to stop the bells? Who d believe us? Hammerson sighed. Despite our efforts, there have been several exchanges over the years. Most of them end up in the psychiatric department at Queen Elizabeth s. I was assigned Margaret last January. The body actually belongs to a Judy Barker. Poor girl started seeing things last Christmas Day; I guessed the rest. I had her under sedation until two days ago, but she disappeared. Turned up tonight, said the third figure. It was the bartender. Thanks to you we ve now got to track her down again. More bloody work... What did she want with me? The barman rolled his eyes. She fancied you as a host for her husband. Hammerson said. She s been watching you since she heard your name back at the hospital. To a vengeful mind, a descendant of the man who engineered their doom is an attractive thing. We ve been watching you too. Helen smiled, clearly embarrassed. Hang on. Indignant realisation rose in my chest. I was bait, wasn t I? You bastards. I was miles away, in the Plume of Feathers So was she. She d have lured you here anyway at least this way we could manage it. 12

13 But you couldn t, could you. I had to get out of that place - alone... I shook myself from Helen s hand. Get away from me. You re all bloody mad. Ed, I m so sorry. Helen s voice was quiet. But we re losing this battle. We need you. You re from old Greenwich stock. That s why you were drawn here. You survived. We need your strength to fight this. I thought it all finished when the bells stopped? I shifted my weight. Whatever was digging into my leg was getting more painful. Hammerson shook his head. It s only the beginning. It s all starting again. This bloody market redevelopment is going to see some serious disturbance. And I m not just talking a few cobblestones. He took a deep swig from his flask. God only knows what they ll unearth when they get those diggers in. We ve got our work cut out, Dr Kay. Judy, I said. I remember- I only thank heavens you managed to throw those coins right back at her. Hammerson started gathering his tools together. I guess you ll need to find this Judy Barker quite quickly, I said. Oh, She won t be far away. We ll get her quite easily and I ll whack her out with Clozapine. She ll most likely try again next year, of course. I doubt it, I thought, as I turned the coins over in my pocket. The End 13