The Mall Read online

  Dan is an angsty emo-kid who works in a deadly dull shopping mall. He hates his job.

  Rhoda is a junkie whose babysitting charge ran off while she was scoring cocaine. She hates her life.

  Rhoda bullies Dan into helping her search, but as they explore the neon-lit corridors behind the mall, disturbing text messages lure them into the bowels of the building, where old mannequins are stored in grave-like piles and raw sewage drips off the ceiling. The only escape is down.

  Plummeting into the earth in a disused service lift playing head-splitting Musak, Dan and Rhoda enter a sinister underworld that mirrors their worst fears. They finally escape, but something feels different. Why are the shoppers all pumped full of silicone? Why are the shop assistants chained to their counters? And why is a café called McColon's selling lumps of bleeding meat?

  Just when they think they've made it back to the mall, they realize the nightmare has only just begun...

  S.L. Grey is a mysterious, genderless persona. In the past, one of S.L. Grey's avatars shelved books in a public library, spent thirteen years in a bookselling chain for 13 years, and gained an MA in Vampire Fiction. Under a different guise, S.L. Grey has animated horror films, won an award for South African fiction and written a love poem to a zombie...

  First published in the UK in 2011 by Corvus,

  an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © S.L. Grey, 2011. All rights reserved.

  The moral right of S.L. Grey to be identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

  retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of

  both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in

  this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-0-85789-042-9 (hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-84887-886-0 (trade paperback)

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85789-271-3

  Printed in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26-27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  PART 1 >>

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  PART 2 >>

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  PART 1 >>

  chapter 1

  RHODA

  My first instinct is to grab his hand, snap back his index finger, and floor the fucker. Instead I keep absolutely immobile, sucking in deep jags of oxygen to try and still my heart. It’s jack-hammering like it does when I’ve taken too much MDMA, but it’s vital I get my shit together and calm the fuck down. I shrug my shoulder out of his grasp.

  ‘Sir?’ he barks, voice nasal and commanding. ‘Why were you running?’

  ‘I’m not a sir,’ I say, turning my head so that he can get a good look at my face. He flinches as I knew he would, but doesn’t bother trying to mask his distaste. Most people at least attempt to hide their shock, but not this guy, although I’m not yet sure if this is because he doesn’t give a shit, or because he’s too dense to know better. He’s swollen-faced, moustachioed, looks like he does his talking with his fists. He’s wearing a curry-stained, beige security guard uniform and his belly flops over his trousers like a sack of dead puppies. A whorl of grey Brillo-pad hair and a finger of fish-belly white skin poke through the gap where his trousers are missing their top button.

  ‘Ma’am? Why were you in such a rush, hey?’

  The last thing I want to do is ask this Neanderthal for help. But I’ve run out of options. ‘I’m looking for a kid.’

  ‘What do you mean, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ve lost a child.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’ve lost a child?’

  ‘I was here at the mall with him and he’s disappeared. Clear enough for you?’

  The guy stands up straighter, places a hand on the gun holster at his hip and pulls out a walkie-talkie. He stares at me suspiciously, clearly trying to figure out what someone like me is doing out with a child at this time of night. Across the aisle, two shop girls with identical fake hair and smudged eyeliner are goggling at me as they lock up a shop selling cheap accessories. I look directly at them and mouth ‘fuck off’. They shrug their glittery bags onto their shoulders and hurry away, heads down, heels echoing on the mall’s tiles. They disappear around the end of the corridor, the trace of a nervous giggle floating back my way.

  ‘Your accent,’ he says. ‘You a tourist? You don’t look like a tourist.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  He takes stock of my army surplus clothes.

  ‘I’m not a tourist,’ I say.

  ‘This child you say is missing, boy or girl?’

  ‘Boy.’

  ‘Where did you last see him, ma’am?’

  ‘At the bookshop.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The big one – Only Books or whatever it’s called.’

  I wait for him to take a step back before I get to my feet. My knees are bruised and crack sickeningly as I stand up straight. The bastard hasn’t tried to help me up or ask if I’m okay. My palms are numb from where I tried to catch my fall, and I shake them vigorously to try and get some life back into them. I make a fist, and the thumb on my right hand feels stiff, the joint popping when I swivel it. I shove my hands in my pockets, fingers finding the envelope and curling over it protectively.

  If he calls the cops I’m fucked. I have to appear normal. Under control.

  ‘Can you describe this child for me, ma’am?’

  I have to clear my throat a couple of times to force the words out calmly. ‘About eight years old, Sponge Bob T-shirt, black hair, bit overweight.’ I take a deep breath, which helps. ‘He’s probably just wandered off.’

  The guy holds up a hand. ‘I’ll be the judge of that, ma’am.’ He growls self-importantly into his walkie-talkie: ‘Simon, come in, Simon.’

  There’s the crackle of static, then: ‘Ja, boss, Simon here, over.’

  ‘Simon, we have an issue here. Small child lost his mother. Keep an eye out for a small black boy—’

  ‘He’s white!’

  He glares at me again. His eyes have a yellowish, jaundiced look about them. The flaccid skin on his face is pitted with ancient acne.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am?’

  ‘He’s not my kid. I’m just looking after him.’

  ‘What is the name of this child, ma’am?’

  I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.

  Fuck.

  I can’t rememb
er.

  ‘What were you doing while you left him at the bookshop, ma’am?’ Yellow Eyes asks again.

  ‘I told you. I had to go to the toilet. I thought he’d be cool there.’

  I glance up at the wall clock. Nine fifteen. Zinzi said she’d be home at ten thirty or so. She’s going to freak the fuck out when she gets back and finds that the kid and her car are AWOL. But she’ll be fired for sure if the parents find out she’s let someone like me babysit their son. Mind you, they can’t be that fussy if they’ve employed Zinzi. Supernanny she’s not.

  Sweat dribbles down my back, and I’m adding my own stench of nervous perspiration to the foul odours in the windowless security office. It already reeks of old cigarettes, dirty carpet and pizza topping.

  Next to me, the man I’ve dubbed Fingerling is checking the security camera footage. He’s the only one in here who didn’t flinch at the sight of my face, probably because he’s also a freak. There are two shiny stumps on his right hand where his index and middle fingers once were.

  ‘Let’s go through this again, ma’am,’ Yellow Eyes says, clearly enjoying this. ‘You say that a friend of yours asked you to watch the child while she went out?’

  ‘How many more times? She’s not a friend. She’s my cousin.’

  ‘She also a Brit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what is your business in South Africa, ma’am?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘We’re just trying to get the facts straight, ma’am.’

  ‘Yeah? Oh well, in that case I thought I’d come out here, do a bit of big game hunting, you know the usual shit you do in Africa. Look, what’s with all the questions? Can’t you just go and find the kid?’

  My phone beeps and vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. It’s a message from Zinzi:

 

  I breathe out with relief. I’ve got an extra hour.

  ‘You think it’s a good idea to leave a child alone in a mall, ma’am?’ Yellow Eyes says.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘They chucked you out of the police force, right?’

  His face reddens. I turn to Fingerling.

  ‘Please. You must find him,’ I say. ‘Please.’ Right now I’ll do anything. Beg, scream, plead. Right now I’m willing to make any kind of deal.

  Something nasty is squirming in my belly. Something that’s telling me the shit’s about to hit the fan.

  I know I shouldn’t have left him. But I only thought I’d be gone for five minutes. I wasn’t really worried when I legged it back to the bookshop, maybe slightly anxious about how I was going to convince the kid to keep his mouth shut about our spur-of-themoment outing to Highgate Mall. I pushed past the skinny chick restocking the New Arrivals shelf and headed to the kids’ section where I’d left him absorbed in the Where’s Wally books. I was already fingering the car keys in my pocket, mentally already back at the house, opening the precious little package I’d just bought.

  But the floor of the children’s area was empty except for a pile of pink and green scatter cushions. I darted through the aisles: past Cookery, Self Help, World Religions, increasing my pace as I passed the bright shiny blur of Science Fiction and Fantasy, the glossy magazine aisle, the titles blurring in front of me. When I reached African Literature I was actually jogging, pulse quickening, feeling the first tendrils of panic.

  The blonde behind the counter was flicking lazily through Heat magazine, licking a finger as she turned each page.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. ‘I’m looking for a kid.’

  She looked up, mouth puckering into a moue of revulsion as she took in the left side of my face. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A kid. Wearing a Sponge Bob T-shirt. He was here. I left him here.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to do that.’

  Now wasn’t the time to lose my temper. ‘Did you see where he went?’ I said.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, turning back to the magazine.

  I slapped the counter, palm stinging with the force of it, feeling a burst of satisfaction when the bitch jumped. A sandyhaired guy, who was methodically bundling credit card slips behind her, glanced up.

  ‘Problem?’ he said to the blonde.

  ‘This person says they’ve lost a child, Bradley,’ the blonde said.

  ‘Small kid, about eight?’ I said. ‘He was in the children’s section. You seen him?’

  The guy shook his head. ‘Would you like us to call security?’ he asked, voice slightly concerned, but it was clear he didn’t really want to get involved.

  ‘I’m sure he’s around somewhere,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  I checked the aisles again, knowing it was pointless, knowing that he wasn’t there. I saw a quick flash of pale white skin disappearing around a corner opposite the magazine display and I followed, feet thudding on the rough carpeting, heart skipping with relief.

  The aisle was empty.

  If I didn’t find the kid, I would be fucked in so many ways. Just starting to think of it made me feel sick.

  My phone beeped. I ignored it, stashed it in the pocket of my combats. It wouldn’t be him; he’s the only kid in Joburg without a phone. I couldn’t talk to anyone until I found him. But where the fuck was he?

  Then I had it – the computer store. He wanted to check out the games when we’d first arrived, kept babbling about Grand Theft Auto or some shit. I hadn’t really been listening, too busy worrying about the meeting with Jacob, too busy thinking about what I was going to say to convince him to give me what I needed.

  I raced blindly out of the bookshop, bumping into an obese woman laden down with late-night groceries. We danced around each other, pirouetting ridiculously as we kept blocking each other’s paths. I shrugged past her, sending a bag of hair dye and tampons skittering across the floor. I didn’t stop to apologise, too intent on trying to remember which floor the fucking store was on. Increasing my pace, I pulled my hood over my head, shielding my face from the stares of the passing meanderthals. I dodged bins, skipped past blank-faced cleaners pushing brooms, and thudded onto the escalator. I shoved my way between two teenage girls standing side by side, ignoring their yelps, and almost fell over my feet at the top. My All Stars squeaked and slapped over the tiles as I raced past darkened shop windows, and then I saw it.

  A Lara Croft cut-out stared back at me seductively, no sign of life behind her. The shop was shut. I rattled the doors anyway; I had to do something.

  I had to think logically about this. What the hell did small kids get up to in malls? Then I looked up and saw the stick figure signs for the toilets. That was it! He’d wanted to go just after we’d arrived.

  The door to the men’s screamed as I pushed my way inside, ignoring the stench of piss and the guy shaking himself off in front of a urinal. He looked me up and down then exited hurriedly as I started booting open the stalls, one after the other. Nothing but stainless steel bowls, sodden discarded toilet paper squares and cracked tiles. One of the floors was wet with Christ knows what.

  Could he have gone back to the car? Would he remember where the hell it was parked? I backtracked, searching for the parking-lot exit, mind blank, but with the vague idea that it was next to a store selling fake Persian carpets and hubbly-bubblies.

  I flew down the escalator again, and that’s when I skidded as my wet shoes hit the tiles. I landed hard, next to a marbled pot plant, and right into Yellow Eyes’ grip and a world of shit.

  Fingerling manoeuvres the mouse with his good hand, and the screen wobbles, comes to life. It takes me a few seconds to realise that the too-skinny, hooded figure racing blindly down shiny anonymous corridors, leaping up the escalator and pushing past two miniskirted teenage girls, is actually me. My mad rush through the mall hadn’t gone unnoticed – strangers’ faces stare after me, they shake their heads, look disapproving.

  ‘It was before this! Look in the bookshop. About an hour ago.�
�

  Fingerling looks up and shrugs. ‘Can’t. Power went out. Lost most of the footage.’

  ‘No it didn’t.’

  I’d remember if it had, wouldn’t I? I don’t recall the lights flickering, dimming, and then surging as they do when the backup generators kick in. I would have been at the Vida e Caffè in the food court, stomach squirming, waiting for Jacob, toying with my latte, jumping every time I caught sight of a tall rangy guy that could be him. I’d give anything to be back there now.

  ‘Just try! Please! Don’t you have backups?’

  At the back of the room a lanky guy with cruel eyes, overgrown eyebrows and a name tag reading ‘Simon’ enters. He catches my eye and shakes his head. I can’t read his expression.

  The screen wobbles and rights itself again. I immediately recognise the guy on screen. He’s standing behind the counter of the bookshop, serving a customer who’s buying a pile of meaty novels with shiny covers. The clerk had blatantly stared at me when I’d first entered the bookshop with the kid. He was ruder than most. Eyes flicked from my left cheek to my chest, couldn’t tear his gaze away. I’d told him to fuck off. Who was he to stare, anyway? Dyed black hair and My Chemical Romance T-shirt. May as well have had ‘emo’ tattooed on his forehead. Thinking about it, he hadn’t been there when I’d returned to find the kid gone.

  Simon walks over to me. He stands too close, deliberately invading my space. I catch a whiff of cheap deodorant and the tang of a breath mint that doesn’t hide the booze on his breath.

  ‘Ma’am, we might have a problem here.’

  ‘Of course we’ve got a fucking problem!’

  ‘No need for that sort of language,’ Yellow Eyes barks. ‘What do you mean, Simon?’

  ‘Ma’am, we’ve spoken to the people who work in the bookshop. They say they don’t remember any child.’

  My stomach plummets again. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

  ‘No one remembers seeing you with a child. They remember you, though. Very clearly.’

  ‘You need to talk to that guy!’ I say, not liking the way my voice sounds. I point to the screen, at the black-and-white image of the emo guy. ‘That black-haired guy! He saw us! He definitely saw us!’