Face the Dark Sidewalk

By Terence Daw

When a woman is murdered on a late-night bus, her grieving twin sister is persuaded to retrace the victim's last moments in a TV reconstruction... a journey that turns nightmares into reality and tears lives apart.

Dangerous obsessions, a cop with a bitter grudge and shadows from the past all converge in this dark, haunting thriller. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terence Daw
• Release date: Sep 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393286011

Terence Daw

Born in London, Terence Daw is a UK-based TV & Film Director and Screenwriter. Face the Dark Sidewalk is his first novel.

Book preview

Somebody comes to take me, to the courts of dead men.

He frowns under  dark brows. He has wings. It is death....

Euripides, 438 B.C .

For My Wife, Wendy

©  Copyright Terence Daw 2019

All Rights Reserved

ONE.

1.

The young trees creak in discomfort, swaying in the chill wind that blows across the night from the Eastern Seaboard. The moon, bright and clear, hangs like a safety lantern above a colonial-style townhouse that keeps silent company with rows of others nestled neatly along the wide, respectable suburban street. Soft white and grey like most of the rest, the house is dark - except for a porch lamp and the dim glow from a skylight window on the roof.

Inside, a wooden-slat venetian blind taps restlessly in the draught of an upstairs window. Moonlight cuts its way through, splashing streaks across the dark hallway. A bedroom door at the far end opens quietly, and the face of a young girl peers out from the gloom. A tender age, maybe twelve or thirteen, she emerges wearing a long cotton nightdress and a distressed tangle of long dark hair. How she loves that hair, sometimes brushing it for ages by the mirror till her mother tells her to stop. But right now, as she begins a slow walk through the shadows of the long hallway, there’s nothing in her heart to love. Only a merciless fear, a scream in her head that pleads for her to go back, and a sickening compulsion to keep moving forward.

The girl reaches the draughty window with the blinds, tap-tapping at the pane as if urging her on, and looks up at the narrow set of steps that lead to the attic. Holding down a dread too familiar she starts to climb, her bare feet feeling the cold roughness of each wooden step till she reaches the top - and the small, unlocked door that only needs a mild push to open up another world.

Within, the same musty, nauseating smell of things long neglected and forgotten stifles the air, fills her lungs. Old furniture, broken toys, rusting tools and God-knows what needless junk crams the dingy, claustrophobic space, with only the murky glow of a battered railway lantern - some prized antique - and a watchful moon from the skylight window to light the way. 

The girl moves further into the attic, her thin legs heavy and resistant, her stomach cramping with tension. Ahead of her, barely visible in the shadows, a man sits in a shabby old chenille armchair.

Darkness shades his eyes but the lantern half-illuminates the slight, expectant smile on his gaunt face. The girl stops for a moment as the man, tall and wiry with unusually large hands, reaches out to a paint-speckled side table and a tiny, intricately designed music box.  Frozen to the spot, her body trembling, the girl watches as the man in the chair gently lifts the lid of the music box. There revealed is a miniature ballerina, elegant as a mini-princess with one leg outstretched and both arms held high, rotating on a small disc while a strange, dreamlike melody floats all about her.

The man leans out from the shadows, the thick crop of brown hair that sits high on his head and his round, deep-set eyes now visible in the lantern-light. They are the kind of eyes that tell you nothing; or if you know him intimately, tell you everything. As the music box persists with its haunting, mocking melody, the man extends his hand and beckons the girl forward. Almost mechanically she moves towards him, her face a blank, a single tear rolling slowly down her cheek. 

2.

The Sorrell Hotel sat crammed between a ragged clutch of uniformly sad, ugly buildings in a part of town known locally as the ‘Devil’s Patio’. And in a city as low on redeeming features as it was on comfort and security, the best advice was simply; don’t go there . That is unless you belonged to one of the many indigenous tribes inhabiting that particular jungle. Otherwise you kept to the core of the city, rotten though it was. You worked there, sometimes grabbed lunch there, maybe a quick beer, then you got the hell out and raced home to the suburbs. As for the Sorrell, it was a place you checked into either to commit suicide or shamelessly indulge in illicit paid-for sex. It had a long history of both.

Inside room 301 - top floor window just above the washed-out blue neon sign - the gaudy lights of the street squeezed their way through the dusty plastic slats of a cheap blind, while the slender hand of a woman, nails painted flamenco red, caressed and scratched the naked skin of a man. With the single lamp of the small room off, only the flickering stabs of colour from outside gave illumination to the hard sweaty sex taking place on the creaky bed.

The man’s lovemaking was rough, heading towards aggressive. It often happened that way. The woman, making all the right moves and noises, was allowing it - just. She’d fight , punch and scream the whole crappy shit-hole of a place down if he crossed the line. But you had to be careful with guys like him, you never could predict. Still, she knew how to handle things and besides, there was a part of her, way down deep in her pounding heart, that was enjoying it.

When it was over, without undue injury but not without a few fingernail marks and some tender parts of her arms and legs that could possibly bruise - something she did not like one bit - the woman stood by the bed and began to put on her clothes. Every now and then she’d glance at the mirror perched on the bare beige dresser for a body or wardrobe check. The man, now half-dressed  and back from flushing his condom responsibly down the toilet, lay stretched out on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, watching her. Like a great painting or a sumptuous sculpture, hers was a figure that demanded studied appreciation. And the man had no problem with that. He liked what he saw. Even the island-shaped birth mark on her hip, over five inches across and looking like a purplish tattoo that hadn‘t come out right, had a strange beauty to it. Not every guy saw it that way though. She knew some had a weird thing about blemishes and this was a prize one. But if they didn’t like it well tough on them. Because everything else was just about as mouth-watering as you’d get in this city or any other place. 

Eventually the reverse striptease reached its finale and the woman stood dressed just as she’d come in; small black leather jacket over a pale lavender halter-neck top, tucked into the thin belt of a thigh-hugging, plum-coloured skirt that generously revealed a truly impressive pair of legs. And as the woman’s painted, pedicured feet slipped into the shiny open-toed heels that matched her skirt, the man swung around to the edge of the bed and opened up his wallet.

You were rough. the woman said as she took the eighty dollars plus ten dollar tip.

Got paid, didn’t you? The man swung back onto the bed and stretched out again.

She looked at him a moment, debating in her head whether to take the issue further. But experience told her it was safer to keep your mouth shut. Which she did, as she grabbed her bag and walked out.

The woman, Danni Neville, stepped gratefully out of the tomb-like elevator that would always creak and bump its way down with the ever-present threat of conking out between floors. Someday, sure as hell, it would. But taking the stairs in the Sorrell was, on balance, a damn sight more dangerous. So letting out a big sigh of relief she crossed the dreary lobby to the lame excuse for a hotel desk, and the even lamer excuse for a night manager.

In every respect Danni was, at twenty-eight years old, a grand sight to behold. Stunning figure, dark, lustrous hair and - unlike most cosmetically botched hookers in the vicinity - quite distinctive features. Her striking coral-green eyes had the preying, penetrating glare of a lioness and her exquisitely shaped nose sat playfully above a small, sensual mouth. Maybe she could have been a model, a movie star, a rich artist’s muse—Hey! I’m nobody’s muse or whatever-you-call-it. Okay?

Elmer, the compact Hispanic manager of the Sorrell, was laughing his soiled socks off at a comedy re-run on his little TV as Danni floated past, dumping the room keys on the desk as she went.

Elmer looked up from the fuzzy network show. Hey, lady. You comin’ back later?

Danni marched on towards the exit. My name’s Danni. I told you.

Yeah, yeah, Danni. You needin’ the room again tonight?

Sweet of you to ask, she said, tugging at the sticky door, but I’m going home. 

Elmer grabbed the keys. Early for you, huh?

Since when is that your business? 

Elmer called after her. Hey, I care about my customers, okay?  But Danni was gone. 

Miss fuckin’ America. he grunted as he turned back to the canned hysteria of his TV show.

Danni melted into the sleazy bustle of the neighbourhood, its streets wet from recent rainfall. Somehow, with the garish lights from a cavalcade of cheap eateries, liquor stores and sex clubs reflecting in the shimmering sidewalk, the place almost took on a kind of crazy beauty. Almost. The locals, a long way from beautiful, consisted mainly of pimps, hookers, dealers and hustlers - all sharp-eyed, plying their trade from doorways and street corners, trying to dodge the cops and look inconspicuous. Which was a big joke since every single one of them looked, sounded and moved like the untamed jungle beasts they were. Even their clientele, nervous and desperate, could never be mistaken for lost tourists. All of them, the givers and the takers, made up the grimy fabric of this reviled, thriving part of the city.

As Danni click-clacked along the street, eager to get home to her apartment and shower, eat, maybe do a little coke, she rounded a corner and almost collided with an old man and his dog. The curse on her tongue was loaded and ready to fire, till she saw that he was blind and tapping a stick. Danni swallowed the fuck-fuelled reprimand and walked on. The old man, turning in the direction of the retreating heels, watched her go with unseeing, cloudy-white eyes.

Crossing another street Danni barely noticed a thin guy with a pock-marked face and a greasy quiff, leaning into a car window talking to two women inside. He looked up as she passed, sucking in air as a gesture of appreciation for her great legs and ass. Within seconds loud cries of impatience from the two women inside brought the thin guy back to the car window double-quick.

Further along in the doorway of a porno video establishment an obese young woman in a skin-tight, dimple-flaunting pink tracksuit stood puffing defiantly on a thin cigar, unintentionally creating a dubious advert for the delights within. She snorted in bitter derision as Danni glided past in a hurry. Yeah, run your little ass off, cheap skin-and-bones bitch.

Dodging traffic and sidestepping puddles Danni finally caught sight of the Central Bus Station up ahead. She prayed the wait wouldn’t be too long. It was always so freaking cold in there, "Like fucking Siberia," she muttered to herself.

Heading for the main passenger entrance she was unaware of the figure slowing up a short way behind her, dressed head-to-toe in dark clothes, watching her intently.

The Bus Station itself was an unloved, certainly un-cared for architectural monstrosity that probably looked amazingly cool and modern back in its 1950’s heyday. Now it was bleak, depressing and badly in need of a makeover. Or better still a total demolition. That was the great unfulfilled promise from City Hall. 

Next year, people would say, they’re gonna knock the whole rotten lousy thing down and rebuild - next year.

It never happened. The filthy grey walls, harsh fluorescent lighting and grubby high windows remained, with enough throat-burning waves of exhaust to choke off any feeble debate about carbon emissions.

It’s gotta be illegal! people would cry. And probably it was, along with just about everything else in the immediate area. 

Danni entered the sprawling, hideous interior and shivered. Several buses, mostly older, run-into-the-ground stock, were parked up at various stop points, some with their engines idling, others dark and silent; either finished for the night or having lost the will to continue.  Only small pockets of late-evening travellers, drunks and lonely souls remained at this hour, the commuters long since gone. A few scattered, indistinct voices broke feebly through the rumble of engines, echoing despondently around the gloomy space.

She spotted her bus, a D27 Northbound, and scurried across a wide, desolate area towards it, hoping against all hope that the hit-or-miss heating would be working properly. And please, none of this waitin’ around shit, let’s get movin’ and get the hell outta here. For once, she was thrilled to discover her timing was spot-on. The driver was actually putting away his logbook and revving up in readiness to depart. The Gods were on her side tonight.

The automatic doors opened with an ear-splitting hiss, like an angry cobra with bronchitis. Maybe the reason it came over so loud was on account of the cavernous acoustics, or maybe the old jalopy just needed maintenance. Danni didn’t give a rat’s ass either way as she stepped onboard and paid her fare. She was just glad to be going home and putting some distance between herself, the Sorrell, and a long night’s work. 

She headed down the aisle to a favourite seat, passing by two young couples laughing and fooling around - the only other passengers onboard. And guess what, the wonky heating was working. Not that brilliantly, granted, but at least it didn’t feel like the Arctic Circle on a brisk day.

As the two young couples boasted about how many blueberry vodka shots they’d put away and other dumb juvenile stuff, Danni settled into her seat by the window, about halfway down the bus. She opened up her soft silver-grey shoulder bag, took out a small vanity mirror and checked her face. It was good news. No smudging, blotches or threatening pimples. Maybe a little tiredness around the eyes but, all things considered, looking pretty damn decent.  And as the mirror moved back and forth, up and down, shooting close-ups on various parts of her face, Danni just caught the reflected glimpse of another passenger - faceless and anonymous in dark clothing, shades, maybe a hat - silently taking their seat behind her at the back. She clicked shut the mirror, popped some gum and checked her cell phone.

Within moments she heard the harsh but gratifying hhisssss of the doors closing, and felt the rattling stutter of the engine as the bus crawled on all fours out of the terminal. No-one of authority was on hand to note the event, no CCTV cameras in place to record it. Hooking up with the twenty-first century meant splashing money around. It wasn't something the Bus Company were in a hurry to do. 

Gazing out through the rain-spattered window Danni watched the city retreat and give way to the dank, dingy suburbs. Both held a curious attraction for her. The yin and yang of her world, her micro universe.

So as the icy rain worked itself up again, Danni’s bus headed bravely towards the borough of Claymore Heights - a world of low-rent housing, greedy landlords and ugly apartment blocks. And for now, like it or not, this was home.

Yeah, but one day... one fucking day....

The bus shuddered to a halt by a diner still playing host to a few local insomniacs. Danni caught sight of a grizzled old geezer squeezing mustard on a jumbo burger which made her realize she was hungry.

Christ, come on, she mumbled as the two young couples took their time getting off, laughing and being stupid, "Let’s get this crate moving." 

A roar of the geriatric engine, a lurch forward and the bus was on its way, now with just Danni and the driver onboard, plus one other passenger at the back. 

The rain had gotten heavier and the driver had on the industrial-sized windscreen wipers that always got him annoyed - yeah, the crap ones that always leave a smear and shoulda been replaced years ago, goddammit.  Danni felt a thick wave of tiredness wash over her but she needed to stay awake; it wasn’t far now and no way was she going to sleep past her stop.

As the bus reached a major four-way junction the driver slowed to a stop and checked all directions. The rain wasn’t helping visibility much, but you’d have to be blind and deaf to miss the huge kiss-my-ass truck approaching and sounding its horn. 

Yeah, yeah, we hear you. said the driver to no-one in particular. A small guy, he was only two years away from retirement and could drive these old stagecoaches in his sleep. According to his wife he often did. Right now he was squinting hard as the wipers swished haltingly across the rain-soaked windscreen and the truck advanced with headlights blazing. Even if he had seen the lone passenger getting up from the seat at the back it wouldn’t have registered much, he was too focused on avoiding the truck and steering this lumbering bag-of-bones across a wet, dangerous junction.

Danni’s whole body contracted in shock as the sickly smell of imitation leather filled her nostrils and her head was pressed hard against the back of the seat. Adrenalin kicked in and she tried to struggle but the gloved hand of the other passenger held her down, stifling her screams. The driver muttered a curse as the giant truck screamed past the bus with a deafening roar and another blast of the horn. At the same moment Danni’s eyes were bulging in panic as the sharp blade of a knife was pushed down into the base of her neck. She’d made a frantic attempt to wrench away the hand of the attacker but it had all been so quick, so ferocious. Now there was violent pain, blood spurting from her neck, the rapidly wasted feeling of her body closing down. 

With the truck gone and the road clear the driver pumped the pedal, turned the wheel and began to steer the bus across the wide lanes. Danni’s head slumped heavily against the window as the other passenger swiftly reached down and took something from the silver-grey shoulder bag. Then, holding onto the seats to keep steady, the passenger moved quietly and carefully up the aisle towards the front - reaching the doors just as the bus pulled up to the stop at the far side of the junction. All the driver saw was the back of somebody in a dark overcoat getting off and, glancing in his mirror, a woman asleep halfway down the bus. He wasn’t happy. What do they think I am, a goddamn wake-up service? he thought to himself as the doors hissed and snaked themselves shut. 

The bus rumbled forward, its cold interior lights throwing a steely glow onto the soggy, deserted boulevard that led on into Claymore Heights. Through the drizzle-streaked glass a single passenger could be seen on board - a woman whose lifeless body was slouched against the window, her hair sticky with blood, her complexion deathly pale and her green eyes staring out at the night in a last frozen look of terror.

3.

The rain had given up at long last but every craggy pothole and patch of uneven ground had been transformed into a fresh puddle. The patrol car splashed its way through a big one as it arrived, blue-and-reds flashing and siren wailing, into the open vastness of the Pike Shopping Mall parking lot. It was going on for 1.20 am now and the mall had been closed since midnight. The only other vehicles around were three buses - parked up in their termination bays. The driver of the D27 Northbound sat on the steps of another bus parked alongside his own, ashen-faced, with two fellow drivers doing their best to offer him comfort. Accompanied by excitable radio feedback spilling from their squad car the two uniformed officers got out and approached the stricken driver. Both were mid thirties; she a brunette with open features and bright eyes all the way from Idaho, he a heavy-set native of Baltimore. As partners, they’d trodden this dark corner of the East Coast going on five years. And it showed. Confident yet cautious as they approached the scene. Never complacent. For Mike Morris and Abby Kaplan the uneasy expectation of what awaited them, the cold tension inside, was always there. 

Abby spoke first. Is the person here who called? Mr. Dryden?

The driver raised his hand and answered quietly. Yes. Here.

Sir, you okay? Mike asked him.

Inside. The driver motioned towards his bus. A young woman... it’s just terrible... blood... He shook his head, unable to comprehend.

Alright, said Mike, you just take it easy.

Mike nodded to Abby, who crossed to the D27. As she did an ambulance and a second patrol car arrived at the parking lot, sirens slicing through the bereaved night air. Mike didn’t look at them. He kept his eyes on the distraught Mr. Dryden and took out his notebook.

Sir, did you see what happened?

No... I found her when I stopped, here at the mall. I thought... the driver paused, realizing the image would never leave him. I thought she was asleep.

Mike turned to the other two drivers.  Better if you take him inside, stay with him. We’ll need to talk to him later, okay?

They nodded and began helping Mr. Dryden into the bus.

Inside the D27 Abby moved very carefully along the aisle, checking the floor as she went, moving towards Danni’s body. She’d been witness to some ugly and brutal sights in her time, but the scene she found at the seat halfway down made her flinch. Perhaps it was the eyes more than the blood, staring out in disbelief from a death-white face, the head resting against the window as if she’d been merely daydreaming. The woman’s entire right side was soaked through with dark blood, right down to her limp hands and her shapely legs; one of which was stretched as if it had tried to kick out, the other buckled with the foot twisted beneath it. The thought occurred to Abby that in a macabre way the woman’s painted toenails, peeping out from the open-toed heels, somehow blended in. 

A deep, silver-grey shoulder bag lay open on the soiled seat beside the body. Abby took note of several 8 x 10 photos that had spilled out, some onto the floor. They were black and white model shots, obviously of the woman, posing both naked and in a tight sexy outfit that didn‘t leave much to the imagination. Abby thought them good photos, well shot, and how sad that most of them were now spattered with the model’s own blood.

It was rare for Abby to get this; a private, privileged moment. It allowed a brief chance to wonder at the life lost and the woman who had lived it. It allowed a second look. A tilt of the head, a frown.

Wait....

The eerie calm was abruptly and unceremoniously broken by two Paramedics entering the bus and moving down the narrow aisle.

Comin’ through. announced one of them.

Abby squeezed back to let them past. Watch where you’re stepping, okay?

Mike was circling the outside of the Murder Bus, checking the vehicle. He could see Abby inside and the Paramedics checking the body. Then, moving closer to the window, he got his first clear view of Danni Neville. Her face, slumped against the window, drained of life and hope, stopped him in his tracks. Froze him.