Dark Companions by Ramsey Campbell Page B

storm. She managed to anchor the bar to the sill, and leaned out into the night to let the rain wash away the smell.
    Nine feet below her she could see the fifth-floor platform of the fire escape, its iron mesh slippery and streaming. The iron stairs that hung from it, poised to swing down to the next platform, seemed to dangle into a deep pit of rain whose sides were incessantly collapsing. The thought of having to jump to the platform made her flinch back; she could imagine herself losing her footing, slithering off into space.
    She was about to close the window, for the flock of papers on her desk had begun to flap, when she glimpsed movement in the unlit warehouse opposite and just below her. She was reminded of a maggot, writhing in food. Of course, that was because she was glimpsing it through the warehouse windows, small dark holes. It was reflected from her building, which was why it looked so large and puffily vague. It must be Mr Tuttle, for as it moved, she heard a scuffling below her, retreating from the lifts.
    She’d closed the window by the time Steve returned. “You didn’t find him, did you? Never mind,” she said, for he was frowning.
    Did he feel she was spying on him? At once his face grew blank. Perhaps he resented her knowing, first that he’d gone down to the sub-basement, now that he’d been outwitted. When he sat at his desk at the far end of the office, the emptiness between them felt like a rebuff. “Do you fancy some tea?” she said to placate him.
    “I’ll make it. A special treat.” He jumped up at once and strode to the lobby.
    Why was he so eager? Five minutes later, as she leafed through someone’s private life, she wondered if he meant to creep up on her, if that was the joke he had been planning behind his mask. Her father had used to pounce on her to make her shriek when she was little—when he had still been able to. She turned sharply, but Steve had pulled open the doors of the out-of-work lift shaft and was peering down, apparently listening. Perhaps it was Mr Tuttle he meant to surprise, not her.
    The tea was hot and fawn, but little else. Why did it seem to taste of the lingering stench? Of course, Steve hadn’t closed the door of the room off the lobby, where Mr Tuttle’s sandwiches must still be festering. She hurried out and slammed the door with the hand that wasn’t covering her mouth.
    On impulse she went to the doors of the lift shaft where Steve had been listening. They opened easily as curtains; for a moment she was teetering on the edge. The shock blurred her vision, but she knew it wasn’t Mr Tuttle who was climbing the lift cable like a fat pale monkey on a stick. When she screwed up her eyes and peered into the dim well, of course there was nothing.
    Steve was watching her when she returned to her desk. His face was absolutely noncommittal. Was he keeping something from her—a special joke, perhaps? Here it came; he was about to speak. “How’s your father?” he said.
    It sounded momentarily like a comedian’s catchphrase. “Oh, he’s happier now,” she blurted. “They’ve got a new stock of large print books in the library.”
    “Is there someone who can sit with him?”
    “Sometimes.” The community spirit had faded once the mine owners had moved on, leaving the area honeycombed with mines, burdened with unemployment. People seemed locked into themselves, afraid of being robbed of the little they had left.
    “I was wondering if he’s all right on his own.”
    “He’ll have to be, won’t he.” She was growing angry; he was as bad as Mr Williams, reminding her of things it was no use remembering.
    “I was just thinking that if you want to slope off home, I won’t tell anyone. You’ve already done more work than some of the rest of them would do in an evening.”
    She clenched her fists beneath the desk to hold on to her temper. He must want to leave early himself and so was trying to persuade her. No doubt he had problems of his