Milena spent the rest of the afternoon in the main lobby. She swayed where she stood with exhaustion, yearning to sleep, but forcing herself to watch. The Zookeeper will never forgive me, she thought.
‘Have a drink,’ said Rolfa’s mother. Milena took a swig direct from the bottle. Rolfa’s mother stood by her, balancing on crutches.
‘The Antarctic’s like this,’ said Rolfa’s mother. ‘Things go wrong, you just have to bear it. Simple things. You can’t pee. It’s so cold that when you widdle, it freezes before it hits the ground. You got to be real quick or just push it out in little jets because it freezes from the ground up. Depending on how low you crouch, you got about thirty seconds before frozen pee hits your fanny.’
Milena took another swig. ‘It’s not a problem I’ve ever had to consider.’ she said miserably.
A well known Zoo Animal ran past screaming, pursued by jolly dogs who trotted after her. The woman wore only a towel wrapped around her middle. Steam from her shower rose up behind her. It’s like a nightmare, thought Milena. It just gets worse and worse.
‘Then there’s the spit,’ said Rolfa’s mother. ‘You can’t spit anywhere near the sheds cause it freezes on the ground and won’t go away. It’s worse man concrete. You can’t chop it and it’s slipperier than a doorknob in a bucket full of snot.’
‘You have a colourful turn of phrase,’ said Milena, breathing whisky. From somewhere there was a crash and a splintering of lights. A dog lifted its leg against the corner of the main reception desk.
Raising the bottle up in a toast, Milena said, ‘To my remaining friends, wherever they might be.’
‘You’re smiling,’ said Rolfa’s mother. ‘Never saw a Squidge smile before. You got the funniest little teeth.’
She likes me, thought Milena. Her smile became a little broader. ‘Thanks,’ said Milena.
Dusk drew in again. Milena heard the dogs being loaded up into the trucks. Zoe came in and stabbed a finger in Milena’s direction. ‘You find my sister,’ Zoe said. ‘Or mere will be real trouble.’
You mean this wasn’t?
Rolfa’s mother shuffled around on her crutches. She looked back over her shoulder at Milena and winked. Milena stood where she was, still with the whisky bottle and heard the trucks pull away.
She wanted to the. She walked to the Shell by a back route, to avoid the Cut or the walkways where people might know who she was. She listened to the sound of broken glass being swept up, and people muttering under their breath. She staggered along Bayliss Road, named after the founder of the Old Vic, and down Hercules Road, past the William Blake Estate, where the poet had once lived. As far as Milena knew, Rolfa had never ventured this far.
And men Milena turned right into Virgil Street.
Virgil Street ran under an old railway bridge. Railway bridges fanned out from Waterloo, like branching realities. Along the brick facade, there were windows, more windows in other bridges. My God, thought Milena, she could be anywhere.
And standing there in the gathering darkness, Milena heard Rolfa begin to sing.
The voice echoed out the twilight blue, from all around Milena, as if the bricks were ventriloquists. The voice was powerful and fluid. It pounced on a note and then held it, and then, as if in rage, tore the note apart with a kind of screech. Milena felt a shudder in her heart, and her breath go still. She tried to breathe, and couldn’t.
‘Rolfa,’ she heard herself whisper. ‘Rolfa. Where are you?’
She walked towards the tunnel. On her left was a walled courtyard. She walked through the gap in its surrounding wall, and the sound was louder, harsher. Milena saw no one. She walked around the edge of the courtyard, peering into corners, hoping to see a niche or hidden doorway. The voice seemed to lead her, hovering in the air, a few steps in front of her.
Virgil Street was lined with arched gateways. Milena walked slowly, as if on thin ice, her breath held. She found herself knocking politely on one of the gates. It slid sideways on runners. A Tyke was holding it open, a boy with his shirt off. There were other boys, swarming over the body of a coach. The coach was painted white with a red cross and the boys were working on the leather straps of its suspension. They were coachbuilders for the hospital estate, working after school.
‘That singing,’ said Milena. ‘Do you hear it? Do you know where it’s coming from?’
The boys wiped the grease from their hands onto rags. They had tough adult faces on tiny bodies, and they wanted to show how adult they were. They pulled on shirts, lifted up their alcohol lamps, and stepped out into the street. Milena walked backwards as they advanced, as if into a cloud of the singing. The sound distracted her. The notes went wild and strange and ugly. Suddenly the tunnel was full of the sound of laughter, a wild, bitter, sarcastic hooting. Milena spun on her heel, expecting to see Rolfa looming over her shoulder. There was no one.
‘Can’t tell where it’s coming from,’ said one of the boys.
‘What’s in there?’ Milena asked, pointing to the other gates.
‘Hospital gear,’ the boys shrugged. They brought their lamps and opened the doors. Milena smelled clean linen, and walked between the racks. The sound of singing dimmed as they walked further into the warehouse. Milena ducked under one arch, and saw more neat and tidy shelving. Rolfa would never be here, she thought. As if the spirit of the place were inimical, the sound of the singing seemed to fade altogether.
Milena walked back out into the street. There the sound of singing wafted around her, like mosquitoes. One of the boys was kneeling on the ground, his ear over a grate. ‘Could be coming from here,’ he said. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the drains below the street.
Another boy stepped forward from the coachworks with a crowbar. Neatly, he lifted up the grate. Milena saw metal bars down the side of the entrance forming a ladder.
‘We’ll go down,’ offered the boys. Milena shook her head. She climbed down into the drains. The boys passed her a light.
There was a sound of water, a trickle, a dripping. Did Milena hear the sound of wet footsteps running? ‘Rolfa!’ Milena called. ‘Rolfa!’ Her own voice came back to her, very close, from against the low walls. She held up the torch and saw the bricks, encrusted with salts. The singing seemed to come from both before and behind her. The notes went raw, howling, as if a dog were crying to the moon.
Milena climbed back up. The boys took the lamp and her arms and helped her.
‘It’s everywhere,’ said one of the boys, with a shivering chuckle.
‘Maybe it’s a ghost,’ said one of them.
‘Hassan!’ protested one of the Tykes, and elbowed him to be quiet. They were all slightly unnerved.
‘That’s exactly what it is,’ said Milena. ‘A ghost.’
The old Rolfa would never have sung like this. She would have had too much respect for the music. This voice was angry, angry at the whole idea of music.
‘Thanks, lads,’ she said. ‘You go on in. I’ll just wait here for a while.’
‘Need help, we’re there,’ said the one called Hassan, and the boys clustered together, and went back to their work. The gate slid shut behind them, and the golden light of the alcohol lamp was shut away.
The singing voice broke. It cheered raucously. ‘Yaaaayyyy! Whoopeee!’ Then it screamed a long, harsh howl that seemed to be the sound of flesh tearing. Sounds like that could ruin a voice for good.
Then Milena heard it, like a cough right next to her ear. ‘Tuh!’ said