Chapter 13

It was officially Tuesday and therefore, day 12.

Although she simply wanted to fall asleep, she knew – she just knew – that it wouldn’t happen, so there was no point in even trying.

It was 12:55. Gretchen was annoyed. No. Gretchen was fuming. Boiling. Incandescent. Her mental processes digressed, as she mused on the energetic, scientific ways of describing anger. It fitted though. Anyhow, get back on track, the voice told her (Who was that? Gretchen was certain that it wasn’t anyone that she knew. It was definitely a stranger.) But it did have a point, so Gretchen laid out her grievances.

1. She was pissed off that Maja had disappeared and also, she had to honestly acknowledge, pissed off with herself for not questioning her sooner about the Underpass Woman. Gretchen had gone to the Tearoom with the intention of narrowing down the unknowns. After all, Maja had seen the Broken Man’s Friend, so the obvious thing would be to ask her if the Friend was the Underpass Woman or even, if she could describe her well enough, the Combat Woman. It was obvious, but she’d left it too late and now her chance was gone. Stupid!

2. She had already decided to take this day as another sick day, but her boss hadn’t even replied to her first message yesterday. How fucking rude! What was that about? Was her contribution so insignificant that her absence didn’t even register? Had she disappeared too?

3. It was bad enough not having page 11 and its oh-so-terrible revelation, but the rest of the section implied that this was therapy. The Broken Man was simply writing a journal. Why? What was that he said? It was good to get it out there and not just trapped deep down within. What had he revealed? And so was Lezka his therapist? What could be so bad that he couldn’t speak it out loud? Maybe he was a serial killer. Maybe he killed Underpass Woman AND Maja. Maybe the Friend was Lezka Ivkam, but do people have therapy in tearooms?

With this, Gretchen felt her fuses starting to blow and her operating systems malfunction. She thrust her face into the soft cushions of the sofa and howled long and loud in frustration. Something – anything – to block out the over-rapid firing. As her brain registered the slight decrease in blood pH, she was compelled to inhale, so she sat up. 

This was actually positive, Gretchen thought, as she walked purposefully back towards the village. The dark and quiet of the early hours were peaceful and it felt good to do something instead of just lying there not sleeping. She wasn’t interested in the tearoom this time though. She turned off the High Street and went down to the underpass. She paused at the entrance, feeling the first twang of nerves, as she peered into the inky tunnel. She was tempted to look up at the camera and smile but decided against that in the end. Maybe replicating the Underpass Woman’s last moves wouldn’t be the wisest option. 

There were lampposts at either end which threw a sodium-orange hue in but it didn’t quite reach all the way to the middle. No, that part was pitch-black. Anything could be lurking there, the voice told her with an unmistakable undercurrent of excitement. Yes, well, contain yourself, Gretchen told it, and got her phone out, so the torch could illuminate the way. 

After such anticipation, it was bound to be an anti-climax. The underpass was seamless concrete walls and ceiling. The tarmacked floor was buckling in places as though roots were trying to emerge, although the responsible flora was nowhere to be seen. No hidden doors; no ventilation shafts; nothing. Just graffiti proclaiming gang tags or football teams and the usual human detritus of cigarette butts and discarded wrappers. She tapped her foot thoughtfully on the ground and decided that this was probably where the guitar case had been left. She didn’t know what a Fender Stratocaster was, but she made a mental note to research that, to see if it could be a useful part of her investigation. Then she remembered that her current ability to recall mental notes was non-existent, so she tapped a few words in her phone, giving a little nod of satisfaction. And then she looked up.

How had she not seen that before? The tendrils of blackened ferns creeping from the floor about one metre in front of her feet and ascending up the wall into an ever-widening canopy above her head. Gretchen edged slowly forwards, her hands outstretched. She’d heard of this but thought it was only seen on the skin of people who’d been hit by lightning. Yet here it was – the Lichtenberg Effect – on concrete. 

Her fingers touched the charred surface and she contemplatively rubbed the sooty tips together. Is this what made the Underpass Woman vanish?

Only a massive discharge of electricity could’ve done this, but where on Earth did it come from?