Dark Companions by Ramsey Campbell Page A

down there had encouraged Mr Tuttle to be careless with food.
    She couldn’t help growing angry. If the man who had built these offices had had so much money, why hadn’t he put it to better use? The offices had been merely a disguise for the sub-basement, which was to have been his refuge. What had he feared? War, revolution, a nuclear disaster? All anyone knew was that he’d spent the months before he had been certified insane in smuggling food down there. He’d wasted all that food, left it there to rot, and he’d had no thought for the people who would have to work in the offices: no staircases, a fire escape that fell apart when someone tried to paint it—but she was beginning to sound like Mr Williams, and there was no point in brooding.
    The numbers were counting upwards, slow as a child’s first sum. Eventually Steve appeared, the solution. “No sign of him,” he said. “He’s somewhere communing with alcohol, I expect. Most of the lights are off, which doesn’t help.”
    That sounded like one of Mr Tuttle’s ruses. “Did you go right down?” she said. “What’s it like down there?”
    “Huge. They say it’s much bigger than any of the floors. You could play two football games at once in there.” Was he exaggerating? His face was bland as a silent comedian’s except for raised eyebrows. “They left the big doors open when they cleaned it up. If there were any lights I reckon you could see for miles. I’m only surprised it didn’t cut into one of the sewers.”
    “I shouldn’t think it could be any more smelly.”
    “It still reeks a bit, that’s true. Do you want a look? Shall I take you down?” When he dodged towards her as though to carry her away, she sat forward rigidly and held the arms of her chair against the desk. “No thank you,” she said, though she’d felt a start of delicious apprehension.
    “Did you ever hear what was supposed to have happened while they were cleaning up all the food? Tuttle told me, if you can believe him.” She didn’t want to hear; Mr Tuttle had annoyed her enough for one day. She leafed determinedly through a file, until Steve went up the office to his desk.
    For a while she was able to concentrate. The sounds of the office merged into a background discreet as muzak: the rustle of papers, the rushes of the wind, the buzz of the defective fluorescent like an insect trying to bumble its way out of the tube. She manoeuvred files across her desk. This man was going to be happy, since they owed him money. This fellow wasn’t, since he owed them some.
    But the thought of the food had settled on her like the heat. Only this morning, in the room where the tea urn stood, she’d found an ancient packet of Mr Tuttle’s sandwiches in the waste-bin. No doubt the packet was still there, since the cleaners were refusing to work until the building was made safe. She seemed unable to rid herself of the memory.
    No, it wasn’t a memory she was smelling. As she glanced up, wrinkling her nostrils, she saw that Steve was doing so too. “Tuttle,” he said, grimacing.
    As though he’d given a cue, they heard movement on the floor below. Someone was dragging a wet cloth across linoleum. Was the caretaker doing the cleaners’ job? More likely he’d spilled a bottle and was trying to wipe away the evidence. “I’ll get him this time,” Steve said, and ran towards the lobby.
    Was he making too much noise? The soft moist dragging on the floor below had ceased. The air seemed thick with heat and dust and the stench of food; when she lit a cigarette, the smoke loomed reprovingly above her. She opened the thin louvers at the top of the nearest window, but that brought no relief. There was nothing else for it; she opened the window that gave onto the space where the fire escape should be.
    It was almost too much for her. A gust of rain dashed in, drenching her face while she clung to the handle. The window felt capable of smashing wide, of snatching her out into the