The peaked rooftop of Billings factory reached into an indigo sky, thick with the promise of rain.
Rhys ran across the car park. ‘Come on, let’s try the door!’
Connor dragged his feet. It had been fun, sneaking around the deserted industrial estate, throwing stones at the windows; climbing through gaps in the hedging; using the old CCTV cameras for target practice. He wasn’t sure he wanted to venture inside though. ‘What if it’s got an alarm?’
‘Don’t be stupid, these factories were emptied months ago. They won’t be alarmed now.’ Rhys tried the handle, but it stayed firm.
A glance skyward. The May rain clouds were beckoning an early dusk, tainting the air a murky grey.
‘We should get back, I’m supposed to be in by nine.’
Rhys disappeared down the channel between the factory wall and the metal fencing marking its perimeter. The sound of a boot kicking a door followed.
‘What’re you doing?’ Connor said, jogging across the tarmac to join him.
‘What does it look like?’ He moved around the back, tried another door. The handle was loose. It rattled, pulled back slightly. Rhys glanced at Connor and tugged harder. The door juddered open. ‘Here we are.’
The onset of night was thicker inside. They stepped over the threshold, into a small corridor with double doors facing them. Rhys pushed at one of the doors and they slipped into a wide open room. Pools of light streamed in from high windows, highlighting the scuffs and oil stains littering the floor.
Rhys grinned, held out his arms and turned 360 degrees. ‘Whoa!’
‘It stinks,’ Connor said, grabbing his nose.
‘That’s ’cos it’s been shut up.’
Rhys bent down, scooped up an empty glue can and tossed it up towards a window. It landed just beneath the glass, pinging off the ledge, and fell back at their feet.
Connor nudged it with his toe, Rhys kicked it back. As they moved down the factory, passing the can to one another, Connor’s shoulders slackened. It wasn’t so bad inside. Not really.
Rhys yanked at the door of a metal cupboard on the far wall. The hinges squealed like nails on a chalkboard as it opened. Inside, a couple of well-used brooms were stored beside a stained mop bucket. They exchanged an excited glance and wrestled the handles off the brushes.
One arm held out for balance, they fought with the sticks, moving up and down the factory like musketeers until Connor lost his footing, stumbled and slipped against a row of oil drums, sending one of them crashing to the floor. The noise reverberated around the factory. As Connor pulled himself up, a line of oil trickled out of the drum, encircling a dirty needle on the floor behind. Spots of blood inside the attached syringe made his stomach turn. ‘We should go,’ he said.
Rhys wasn’t listening. He hadn’t seen the syringe, was already halfway up the stairs in the corner, his trainers tap-tap-tapping against the metal lip of each step.
A low hum started in Connor’s head. ‘Rhys!’ He checked over his shoulder and followed.
The door at the top of the stairs opened into another large room. A full moon had parted the rain clouds, its light streaming through the window and casting a milky glow across clumps of desks the former occupier had left behind. Discarded chairs were scattered about haphazardly.
Connor gripped his nose with his free hand. The stench was stronger up there. The hum in his head intensified.
A faint scratching sounded.
‘What’s that?’ Rhys said.
Another scratch. Behind them. They whisked around, spotted a baby rat crouched in the corner. Rhys inched forward, lifting the broom handle. Then drove it to the floor. The creature scuttled under a desk.
He chased after it, thrust the handle beneath the desk. More scratches. He poked it in further, pulled back. Rushed to the other side, Connor on his tail.
The rat ran out, squeaked. Rhys doubled back to follow it, colliding with Connor. The whole building seemed to shake as they tumbled to the floor. The hum in Connor’s head cut.
‘Idiot,’ Connor said. He pushed his friend aside, checked his limbs. The cords of the carpet were rough, unforgiving. When he lifted his hand, it was damp. It looked like blood.
‘Urgh!’ He wriggled back, turned. And froze.
A pair of legs stuck out the side of a far desk. Denim jeans; the laces of yellow trainers hanging loose.
He elbowed Rhys. Pointed.
Rhys’s jaw dropped.
They peered around the corner of the desk together. And came face to face with a woman propped up against the radiator.
Rhys jumped, screamed. Slid back across the carpet.
Connor stilled, his breaths halted, staring at her. She didn’t flinch. Slowly he edged towards her, pointing the tip of the broom handle, still in his hand.
‘Don’t!’ Rhys hissed.
Connor ignored him and tapped her foot. It wobbled from side to side. Glassy eyes stared through a mop of dark curls.
For a second, they gawped at the corpse in front of them, paralysed in fear. Then Rhys scrabbled back and jumped to his feet. ‘We gotta get out of here.’
***
Fifteen minutes later, Rhys’s words rang out in Connor’s head as he arrived home. ‘We tell no one.’
They’d run from the factory, out of the industrial estate and kept running, until their lungs burned and their chests ached. Only when they reached the park at the back of Weston High Street did they slump to the floor, hidden in the shadows, pressing their backs against the wrought-iron fence.
The conversation they had there whirled in Connor’s mind, like a song on permanent repeat. He’d wanted to call the police. Rhys refused. ‘Even if we don’t tell them who we are, they’ll trace our mobiles,’ he’d said. Rhys knew a lot about police work. His father was serving a sentence after stabbing a man in the leg during a pub fight; his sister was awaiting trial for supplying drugs.
‘We haven’t done anything wrong,’ Connor had countered.
‘We shouldn’t have been there. We were trespassing. No, we go home. Clean up. Carry on as if nothing happened. Someone will find her soon enough.’
Connor’s throat had thickened as he’d walked home. In many ways, Rhys was right, he couldn’t afford a visit from the police either, his mother was still reeling after discovering he’d skipped the last day of school and spent it playing football in the local park. There was nothing they could do to help the woman. But the gruesome sight of her glassy eyes, all that blood, kept popping into his head, making him shiver.
The living room door sat ajar, a line of amber light seeping in from the hallway. The babble of the television filtered through from the front room. A distant chuckle: his mother. She was watching one of those comedy panel shows she liked so much.
He quietly kicked off his trainers, scooped them up. The chill of the quarry tiles seeped through his socks as he tiptoed across the floor. He reached the washer, cast another glance towards the hallway, ears on hyper alert while he peeled off his jeans, shrugged off his hoody and shoved them in the machine, followed by his trainers.
Connor was used to washing; he’d lost count of the number of football kits he’d put through when his mum was working. The powder skittered about on top of the clothes.
He heard music come from the front room. The show was finishing. He put the powder away, turned the dial, pressed the On switch. The machine did nothing. Connor swallowed, turned the dial back. It was chilly standing there in his pants and socks. He needed to go upstairs, before his mother caught him. But he’d wiped his bloody hands on his clothes, couldn’t leave them like this.
Frantically, he turned the dial again. It clicked. Thank God. He crept past the front room and up the stairs.
Connor was just closing his bedroom door when he heard the music stop and his mother pad into the kitchen.
