Hidden Secrets - 7. Seven of Wands

George Whitaker's complete history of the Regal was a collection of hand-written and photocopied pages, some very old typewritten sheets, newspaper clippings - including the now familiar 'cat rescue' edition - and some newer, obviously word processed pages.

Several of these dealt with the dates famous films had been shown. For example, The Sound of Music played for seven weeks in nineteen sixty-seven; the longest run of any film back in those single screen days. Imagine how that huge auditorium must have looked and felt, packed with nearly two thousand eager patrons.

George also named the films with which the cinema had re-opened after tripling and as listed on the website, the dates of all the major productions and live bands that had played there. But the page I found most interesting was his own account of the cinema's rise and fall.

The Regal Cinema was erected on a site where a grand Victorian house once stood, long since fallen to decay. Part of this site was covered by an ornamental lake, with fountains. It’s said these were never properly filled in, giving rise to the damp problems suffered intermittently by the building. Apparently the fountains were fed by a deep cistern, which is situated somewhere beneath the floor of the stalls. During the tripling of the cinema a hole was uncovered, which may indeed have been this 'well'. Our theatre cat, Fluffy, was rescued from a watery doom down this hole by Mr Bob Luard, son of the owner of Luard Construction. He was lowered down on a rope until he could reach the cat, who was most ungrateful for this assistance. Following this incident, the top of the shaft was always kept covered, until it was finally filled in towards the end of the work.

Rumours circulated that this well had also claimed a victim during the original construction of the cinema - that a hapless workman had fallen to his death and that his restless ghost haunts the cinema.

Interesting. Wasn't that one of the causes of cinema hauntings mentioned on the website; someone being killed during the building work?

Staff have often said they have seen someone sitting in a particular stalls seat at the end of the evening, but when they go to investigate (thinking it to be a patron who has fallen asleep) no one is there.

I had to find out if that particular rumour was still circulating. Of course, the front stalls were rarely used these days and staff weren't so scrupulous about checking as they once had been. Maybe if I mentioned the story, someone would then 'see' the ghost again.

Suddenly, I stopped. What if the workman's body had never been recovered and it had lain down in the well all this time? What if that was what caused my sense of unease over the spot? What if Maurice's ramblings were just that, and nothing untoward had happened back in the nineteen-seventies at all?

Hang on a minute, the logical side of my brain insisted. No one would have been left down there all that time. They'd have recovered the man's body for a proper funeral. In any case, there was no more proof that someone actually was killed during the building than anyone had been dumped down the well at a later stage. If I wanted definitive answers, there was still someone around who'd actually been down that hole. Bob Luard. I guessed that as Luard Construction was still a going concern, it was likely he’d taken over running the business by now as his father must have long since retired. That would be easy enough to check. If I managed to speak to him I could ask where the exact location of the well was and maybe get him to tell me how deep it was. It was such an obvious thing to do I wondered why I'd not thought of it earlier. It would now have to wait until Monday, as I doubted the boss worked weekends. He was probably out on the golf course.

Naturally there was nothing in the history that helped me to understand who might have wanted to kill someone; who'd written the snarky remarks in the Chief Operator's Log, or whether Trevor Godfrey had fiddled the company. Maybe when George got around to contacting me in person I could find out more about those.

'What have you got there?' Cynthia asked as she brought some fresh toast across from the grill.

'George's notes about the Regal. Here's an interesting bit.' I showed her the paragraph concerning the workman's accident.

She raised her eyebrows. 'I wonder…'

'Me too. But no-one else has even mentioned it to me and cinema staff love their spooky stories, so if it really was the case I'm sure I'd have heard of it.’

'You've only been there a week, dear. What do you do, talk all the time?’

'Not quite. But I've made friends with a lady called Sylvia who works front of house. She's been there for years and knows pretty much everything about everyone.’

'Is she a reliable witness, do you think?’

‘If you'd met her, you wouldn't even be asking that. She was the one who told me about the cat falling in the well. And she's kind to Maurice.’

Cynthia sat down heavily, and began spreading her toast with Marmite.

I used the remaining sheets of paper to divert its pungent smell away from me. 'How can you eat that stuff?’

'It's very tasty. Full of vitamin B, as well. Nipper loves it.’

Sure enough, the little dog was sitting up under the table, one ear cocked, in his 'loveable beggar' pose. Cynthia broke off a piece of toast thick with the vile brown goo, and he devoured it in seconds. 'He knows it’s good for him. You should try some.’

'I did, once. Never again.’

Cynthia chewed her toast thoughtfully. 'So what's your plan for the weekend?’

'Well, I'm working later today, but I've got time to go to the library first and check to see if George's emailed me yet. If he has, I've got some questions to ask him. Nothing too odd at this stage.’

'What are they?’

'I'm going to start by telling him I've just taken over as chief and I'm really interested to find out as much as I can about the building. I’ll mention the soggy carpets and the slugs and snails…'

'Von Pohl said that slugs and snails were attracted to black streams, you know.’

'He was a bit of a charlatan, wasn't he? Dad always said he gave dowsing a bad name. Anyway, slugs and snails are attracted to damp, dark places and you can't get much damper and darker than behind screen three in the Regal.' I paused. 'Do you rate him, then?’

'Not personally. I have a friend who's heavily into Feng Shui and she reckons he was right on a lot of counts, but just went a bit far. I'd agree with that. But it pays to keep an open mind on everything, especially at my age. As soon as your beliefs become ingrained, your mind begins to stagnate.’

'Whose theory is that?’

'My own.' She tossed another piece of Marmite polluted toast to Nipper.

'Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. I shall lead him into the subject of the well, see if he corroborates the evidence we already have. Also give him a link to the page about Trevor's time slip and ask him if he thinks Trevor was a reliable witness. I'm also going to put in a few technical questions about the plenum and suchlike.’

'What on earth is a plenum?’

'The opposite of a vacuum. Basically, it’s a system that ensures the air pressure inside the auditorium is higher than outside, so you don't get draughts. It provides ventilation and heating.’

'It sounds very complicated.’

'The plenum chamber at the Regal is nearly the size of this kitchen and the dining room put together. It's a fascinating bit of equipment.' I quickly changed the subject, as I felt myself sliding into my 'cinema bore' mode. 'So what are you doing today?’

'Well, this afternoon I'm having some friends over for tea and a seance. These dark evenings really help to create the right atmosphere. This time of year always makes me think of that poem by TS Eliot. The one about "three wax candles in a darkened room" and the fog rubbing up against the window panes.’

Just thinking about seances made me uncomfortable. 'I haven't read it.’

'Oh, you should. It's very cinematic in its language.’

There was something I had to ask her. 'Do you... do you really believe the dead can speak to us?’

She gave me a sympathetic glance. 'I don't know for sure. I'd like to think so.’

'So, you definitely believe there’s an afterlife?’

'Well, neither you nor I are going to know that for sure until... but yes, I think there must be. I mean, it's really hard to imagine just... stopping. Not being anything at all.’

'Cliff did. He said that when you're dead, that's it.’

'Poor boy.’

'You wouldn't say that if you'd met him. He was so certain. So confident he knew exactly what made everything tick.' There was something about Cliff’s theories I'd often worried about. 'Do you suppose that what a person believes creates its own reality? So that if someone dies, and they truly believe they will go to heaven, that's what they'll get. And a person who believes they're damned will go to their own vision of hell. And someone who thinks it just ends will... end.’

'As I said, we can't be sure about that. It's a rather bleak outlook.’

I suddenly recalled I'd once had a similar conversation with Cliff. He'd chided me for worrying about unnecessary things, then in a playful mood had declared that if there was really a life after death, he'd like to spend it at the five star resort we’d stayed at in Mauritius. So maybe that's where he was now. I hoped so.

Cynthia was still watching me. 'You know you can always talk about him if you want to. I'm here to listen.’

‘Thanks, Cynthia.’

'It's coming up to a year soon, isn't it?'
'November twenty-fifth.' Exactly a month before Christmas. And hadn't that been fun last year?

'It's always better when the first year goes by. Or so they say.’

‘You know…’ I wanted to say more. Cynthia was easy to talk to. ‘When he died, I’d been thinking about leaving him.’

She nodded sympathetically, encouraging me to continue.

‘We’d not talked to anyone else about it. At least, I hadn’t and I assume he’d not either. So when everyone kept treating me like the grieving loved one, I felt like I was a fraud.’

‘You did love him, though?’

‘Of course. We just wanted different things from life. Maybe we could have worked things out, but now I’ll never know. And his family were quick enough to get me out of their lives.’ The house had been in Cliff’s name. I wasn’t entitled to anything, legally. Not that I'd really cared about that anyway, while they did.’

‘Everything happens for a reason, Terry. You’re young enough to find love again.’

‘Maybe.’ Quickly I drank down the last dregs of my tea. 'I must go.’

'Well, have a good day. Do you know what time you'll be back tonight?’

'About eleven-thirty, I should think.’

The library was becoming a familiar place. I couldn't help but wish Cynthia would get a computer at home, especially if I needed to set up regular email correspondence with George. Of course, I could use the cinema system, but I'd rather not have everything going through the company server and everyone knowing my business.

I quickly checked my emails. There were five of the spam variety, which I checked and deleted. You have to open them these days as they often have quite innocuous subject lines. As I didn't know George's email address yet I couldn't afford to delete anything unread.

At last, there it was. A short message.

Hello

My good friend Bill tells me that you are interested in the history of the Regal. I worked at the cinema between 1967 and 1988, and collected a lot of information, much of which is already on show at Bill's site. I am happy to help you with any other information you need.

All the best

George Whitaker

I hit the reply button and copied down what I had written earlier. I also told him I wouldn’t be able to check my emails regularly and that it might be useful to talk to him in person. I put my mobile number down, as I didn't want Cynthia to get any bothersome calls. Not that I thought George was any sort of weirdo, although he had, after all, worked in a cinema. He might well be a lonely old man who wanted to talk for hours. I wouldn't inflict that on her.

As a second thought I searched for Luard Construction. If they didn't have a website, the number should be available in the local business directory, but when you get into the habit of looking things up on-line, anything else seems a bit unwieldy.

Yes! They had a web page. I clicked on the link and waited for it to load. It was one of those professionally made sites that seem intended to show off the web designer's prowess. Very pretty and all that, but too much waiting. For god's sake, it was only a building company, so did they need all this fancy stuff?

Actually, they were a pretty big concern. Several depots around the Midlands, not just in this town. They had been involved in the building of leisure centres, new houses, refurbishment of existing buildings, conversions and the like. The home page had a picture of the company's head office; modern, impressive and doubtless self-built. There was also a picture of the managing director, Bob Luard. So I’d been right! He looked to be in his fifties, which would mean he was almost certainly the man who had rescued the cat, back in the nineteen-seventies. He was sitting smugly at the controls of a large yellow digger, wearing a hard hat together with a business suit to show he didn't actually do this sort of thing every day. He'd put on quite a bit of weight as his involvement with the family concern became less to do with hard graft and more to do with meetings. Although he was weighty, he gave the impression of there being quite a lot of muscle in the bulk, rather than just flab. He had a ruddy complexion from his years on site and a good head of hair for a man his age. I thought he looked like the sort who would call a spade a spade, wouldn't suffer fools gladly and might have a bad temper.

I noted down the phone number and decided to ring first thing on Monday, hopefully before the great man became too busy. I imagined he would have a deep, booming voice and that I would need to hold the phone a couple of feet from my ear to avoid being deafened. Judging by the look of him, I would have to be very brisk and businesslike as well.

When I arrived at the cinema, I was surprised to see Maurice pacing the steps in agitated manner. There was no avoiding him. In any case, I wanted to get him chatting again.

'Morning, Maurice.’

He spun around. 'How do you know who I am? And who are you?’

'We met the other day. I'm the... relief projectionist.’

He looked at me a bit suspiciously. 'I don't remember you.’

I shrugged.

'Anyway, it's a good job you're here. I seem to have mislaid my keys. Must have left them in the box last night. Would you mind letting me in?’

'No. Of course not.' I hoped Dan wasn't around to see. I didn't want him to get a bad impression of me. Still, what harm could Maurice do if I was with him?

The foyer, though empty, gave me a feeling I was being watched. I put it down to the vague sense of guilt I already felt at doing something I knew wouldn't meet Dan’s approval. Although he’d not actually banned Maurice, just didn’t want to encourage him.

Maurice blew on his fingers. 'It's chilly in here. The boilers need turning up.' He headed briskly off towards the stage end with me in tow.

Just inside the stalls door, he stopped. 'Can you smell that?’

'What, the disinfectant the cleaners use?’

'No.' He took a sniff. 'It's always bad this time of year. That's when it happened.’

I thought I should try and find out what he was on about. 'What happened, Maurice?’

He looked toward the place I knew so well and shook his head. 'I can't say. But I can smell it.' He bent close and cupped a hand around my ear before whispering, 'Rotting flesh. That's what it is.' I couldn't smell anything like that, but I nodded. 'Oh, right,' I answered in equally conspiratorial tones.

Maurice strode off. I noted he took care to avoid that spot. In fact, now I was aware of it, I could see the carpet had become unevenly worn just there. Lots of people must be unconsciously doing exactly the same.

The door under the stage was locked. He had to wait for me and when I began to fumble with the keys, trying to find the right one, he grew impatient and snatched them out of my hands. Then he stopped and looked at the bunch more closely. His face reflected puzzlement, then anger. 'You've got my keys!' he accused. 'What are you doing with my keys?’

'They're the ones I was given,' I protested. 'I didn't know they were yours.’

His face softened. 'It's all right, lad. I know it's not your fault. But I'm going to have a word with Mr Bartleby about this.' Still holding my bunch of keys, he stormed back up the aisle.

I ran after, pulling at his coat. 'No! Wait!’

He stopped abruptly.

'He's not here yet,' I said desperately. I had no idea if this was true, but I had to stop him from storming into the office.

'Why are you trying to stop me?' He brushed my hand away. 'Are you on their side?’

I shook my head 'I don't think he’d like to be disturbed this early.’

'You are. Get away!’ He hit out at me, then began to run. He was surprisingly sprightly for his age; all those years of running up and down the stairs, no doubt.

’Hey, stop! Give me my keys!' I had visions of him running out of the cinema with them and of me having to explain all this.

Maurice crashed through the foyer doors, sending them flying back against the wall with a bang. I was close behind, but not close enough. It all happened very quickly, but I seemed to see it in slow motion. There was someone out there, wearing a dark coat and carrying a case. Maurice tried to swerve past but he blocked the way. I heard the soft impact of bodies.

'Hey! What the…’ Dan's voice was abruptly cut off as the wind was knocked out of him. They both ended up in a heap on the floor. His case skidded against the side of the popcorn machine with a clang.

For a few moments I just stood there, not entirely certain as to what I should do. Then common courtesy took over and I offered Dan a hand to get up. His legs were slightly unsteady, but he didn't seem to be seriously hurt. He leaned against the counter to catch his breath, while I attempted to get Maurice to his feet. His glasses had fallen off and he had dropped my bunch of keys.

'My glasses,' he kept muttering, feeling around on the floor.

I handed them to him and also recovered the keys before he had a chance to go looking. In any case, I didn't think he could see very much without his spectacles. One of the ear pieces had broken off and every time he tried to put them on they slipped down on the right side of his face.

'It's all right,' I reassured him. 'We can fix them with some film splicing tape till you get them done properly.’

Dan brushed his coat down and picked up his case. 'I hope there's a good explanation for this,' he said to me. 'Are you all right?' he asked Maurice.

Maurice nodded vaguely, then started making his way slowly towards the front doors.

'Do you think we ought to let him go?' I asked Dan.

'You try and stop him. I'll call his wife.’

'Hey, Maurice! Let me fix your specs before you go. It'd probably do you good to sit down for a few minutes after a fall like that.’

He looked at me as if I was a stranger again. 'What happened?' he asked. 'How did my glasses get broken?’

'You had a fall. Here, come and sit down.' The incident seemed to have made him forget his earlier panic. He followed me without protest and I got him to sit down on the small chair in box two while I taped his glasses together. 'There you go. They should stay on now.’

'Thank you.' He put them back on again. I noticed that he had the beginning of a nasty bruise across his nose and left cheek.

He looked around the box. I wondered how many times he'd sat in that chair over the years, waiting for a scope change, or for the credits to come to an end. 'Who did I run into?’

‘That was the manager, Dan Perkins.’

'Will he be angry?’

'Probably, but not with you. It was my fault.’

'Does he shout a lot?’

'I don't know.' Dan didn't look like the sort of man who yelled. I imagined his anger to be quiet and precise, which was much more frightening.

'Jack used to shout a lot. He pushed, too. Poked you, like this.' He poked the air sharply with his index finger. 'He knew he wouldn't get in trouble for that. Once, he made me fall down the stairs.’

'The ones from the box?’

He nodded. The fall he'd just had must have brought these memories to the surface. 'My glasses broke that time, too.’

'Nasty,' I said. 'Still, you were lucky not to break anything else.' I revised my earlier assessment of Jack. Maybe the scenario I'd envisaged previously could have happened after all. 'Did he get a warning? Jack, I mean.’

'No. He was in cahoots with the manager. They went to the same pub every night and bought drinks for each other.’

Another useful piece of information. Sylvia had also mentioned that Jack had a drink problem; this seemed to corroborate it. God knows how many possible suspects there were now. It seemed everyone had a motive to murder someone or other back in nineteen seventy-five. Maurice's talk of rotting flesh and 'when it happened' made me still more certain a body had been dumped down the old well.

Dan appeared in the doorway. ‘Maurice,’ he said softly to the old chief. ‘Your wife is going to come and pick you up.’

'Who'll run the shows?’

'I'm sure Terry will manage on his own.’

It was twenty minutes before Maurice's wife arrived. 'I hope he hasn't been a bother,' she said worriedly. 'I wish I could stop him from coming here, but he likes to get out of the house for a few hours and…'

'Don't worry about it,' I said. 'He's only bumped his head a bit.’

'I broke my glasses, Brenda.' Maurice looked a bit sheepish in front of his wife.

'Well, better them than your dentures again. He left them on a chair and sat on them,' she told me. 'It cost sixty pounds to get them repaired.’

She led him out to the taxi. I wondered how difficult her life must be now and how much more difficult it would become as his condition worsened. Then I went into the office to face the music, feeling strangely calm.

Dan was sitting in front of the computer. He stopped scrolling through whatever he was looking at as I came in.

‘Maurice is on his way home,' I said.

'Good.' He gestured for me to take a seat. 'Want to tell me what happened this morning?' His voice was still sharp, but he'd had some time to calm down, for which I was grateful.

I sat and took a deep breath. 'Maurice was outside when I arrived. He thought I was the relief projectionist, said he'd left his keys inside. He wanted to find them. I tried to stop him, but he can be very persistent.’

'Why did you let him get in? I'm sure he couldn't push past you if you were really determined to stop him.’

Suddenly I felt as if there was no real point in skirting around the truth any more. 'Okay. I let him in because I feel sorry for him. Poor old man worked here for years and years. He still thinks he's the chief. Half the time his thoughts are wandering in another era. If I hadn't let him in, he'd still be tapping on the glass, feeling like he's been shut out of a place that was virtually his home. He cared about this building while he worked here. He still does.’

'We're not a charitable institution, Terry.’

'I know that.’

'What if he'd had some kind of accident? A serious accident, I mean. If he'd tried to turn on some piece of equipment, or fiddled with the electrics. He's not covered by the company insurance.’

Dan was right, of course. It still seemed callous.

'I want you to promise me that you won't let him in again. If he wanders into the foyer when the building's open, that's fine. He's just another member of the public then and I've no objection to him being here, as long as he doesn't go anywhere outside the public areas. That means the projection rooms obviously.’

'I won't let him in again.’

‘Good.'

I felt as if I'd got off quite lightly. 'Are you okay?' I asked again. 'From the fall, I mean.’

'I'll have a few bruises, but there was no real damage done. Why was he running like that? He looked like all the hounds of hell were after him.’

'He'd, ah, taken my keys and I was trying to get them back. He thought I was on "their side", whoever "they" are.' I stopped, wondering if I should go further. Well, I'd have to sooner or later and my guilt had put me into confessional mood. Besides, I thought Dan might understand. 'Something really bad happened here once. I think he knows something about it.’

'Bad? How bad?’

'I think someone was murdered and their body is down that old well.' There. I'd said it. There was no going back now.

Dan looked as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. 'Maurice told you this, did he?' His expression said everything about his opinion of Maurice as a reliable source of information.

'No. It was what he wouldn't say. You see, when he first mentioned the well, he immediately shut up and muttered something about not being allowed to talk about it. "He told me not to say anything,” were his precise words. That led me to thinking about who this other person was, and the reason he might not want Maurice to tell anyone about it.’

'I'm with you so far, but I fail to see where this leads to murder.’

'I didn't come to that conclusion right away.' I realised I was digging myself into a hole. After all, I had no real proof. 'Do you remember the other day when I showed you where the well is? You shivered. You didn't want to stand on the spot.’

He nodded. 'There was a draught. You told me it was something to do with the underground water.’

'That's because I didn't want to tell you what it really means. That's what you feel when you're standing on a spot which is...' Go on, say it. You've dug your grave, so to speak. 'imprinted with the memory of a traumatic event. Haunted, if you like.’

‘Sorry, but I don't believe in ghosts,' he said, sounding more like Cliff than ever.

'Maybe not. But they obviously believe in you. Not everyone feels it. Only those who are attuned... sensitive.’

'And you do, do you?’

I nodded. Now he was going to think I was crazy.

'And this is why you reckon there's a body down there?’

Put bluntly like that, at ten thirty in the morning in the cinema office, it seemed fairly unlikely. All the bits and pieces I'd found out seemed just that; random snippets of information that could be interpreted any way a person chose. You could equally as well put it down to an over active imagination, or a desire to find a pattern where there wasn't any. 'Yes,' I said, hesitantly. 'But it's not just that. Why would anyone tell someone to keep their mouth shut about something if not to hide evidence of some sort of illegal activity? Why would you tell someone not to mention an old well? Because you'd hidden something down there, that's why.’ I gave Dan a moment to digest this before continuing. ‘What would you hide under a cinema? It can't be anything you'd want to get your hands on easily, like cash from a robbery. It has to be something you don't want again and you'd rather not be found by anyone, ever.’

'So you came to the conclusion this must be a body?' He still sounded sceptical. 'Based on the ramblings of a confused old man?’

'It's not just that. I've looked into what the cinema was like back then. It all happened when the place was tripled. The more I find out about the people, the more it seems likely.’

'Come on, Terry. You've worked in cinemas long enough to know that there are always personality clashes. Look at you and Colin, for example. It doesn't mean they go and kill each other.’

He was right, of course. I couldn't hope to explain to him how I knew I was on the right track. He'd just find logical reasons to make it sound like rubbish.

'Look,' he said. 'I'm glad you found out where this well is and we'll certainly have it looked at in the New Year. But leave the Hercule Poirot stuff at home, okay? And don't go telling any of this to the other staff. I know how these tales have a way of spreading and I'd rather not have head office hear about it.' He softened his tone. 'As far as I'm concerned you're doing a good job in the box. Concentrate on that and on trying to bring Colin round to any improvements you want to make. That's what you're here for.’

'Okay. I will.’

'Now I'm sure we've both got things to be getting on with...' I was dismissed. He turned back to the blue glow of his screen.

I left the office feeling disheartened and confused. Although deep down I knew I was right, Dan's doubt had cast a shadow over me. All through the day I kept hoping to hear some news. I kept my phone with me, just in case George decided to ring. I threw myself into work, tidying up the downstairs boxes and changing the oil in the noisy projector, which quietened it down slightly.

On the way past the kiosk just after the early evening house had gone in Sylvia beckoned me over. 'So who's been a naughty boy?’

‘Eh?'

'What's this I hear about you recklessly knocking over managers?’

It was a good example of how a rumour could mutate in such a short time. 'It wasn't me, it was Maurice. It was an accident.’

‘So, are you going to tell me how it happened?’

'It was my fault really. I let him in because I felt sorry for him. But when he was in the auditorium he began to panic - thought I was someone else - and he snatched my keys and ran off. I was chasing him when he cannoned into Dan.’

'Poor Maurice. Was he all right?’

'A bit stunned. Mind you, he's never been so docile, or talkative as when we were waiting for his wife to pick him up.’

'More tales about the past?’

I nodded. 'I think it's more real to him than what happened five minutes ago to be honest. That fall he had must have triggered memories. He told me Jack pushed him down the box stairs once.’

'Jack did? Well I never.' Sylvia tutted her disapproval. 'I always thought he was all bark and no bite, but you can be wrong about anyone, can't you? If only Maurice had said something back then when it mattered, Jack might have been out the door a bit quicker that he was.’

This was interesting. 'I thought you said he retired?’

She wiped the counter down swiftly and methodically. 'No. George retired. Jack left of his own accord. Had a big row with the manager and threw his keys at him. Walked out. We were talking about it for weeks.’ The popcorn dispenser was next for the treatment. 'So you say Maurice was in a chatty mood?’

'More than usual, yes.' I wondered if bouncing any of my ideas off her might help jog her own memory. People often didn't realise what they'd seen or heard was of any importance. She wouldn't have told me about Jack's outburst if I hadn't mentioned him just now. As long as I didn't say anything about rotting flesh it should be all right. 'He was on about the well again. He seems to think something happened there.’

'Fluffy's fall, you mean?’

'No, something else. He won't say what.' That was subtle enough. I watched for a reaction but didn’t see any.

'Confused about things, thats what he is. Just like my mum was. She'd mix up all sorts of stuff that had happened at different times, or even talk to me as if I was still a little girl.’

'Maybe,' I said. 'But it's not just Maurice. Do you ever go into the front stalls area?’

She gave a quick shake of her head. 'Not for years. I always work out here these days. My legs wouldn't take all that standing. Why?’

'I was wondering if you'd noticed the way people avoid a certain spot. There's even a track on the carpet where they unconsciously walk to one side. It's exactly where the well is.’

'How odd.’

'And... I sensed something there.’

'Like what?’

'I don't know exactly.' I realised I might have gone a bit too far. Last thing I wanted was for Dan to hear I'd been scaring all the staff with rumours of ghosts and hidden corpses. 'Probably nothing.’

'Here, I reckon you've been reading too many of them ghost stories.’

'At least I haven't walked in on a full auditorium of people wearing old-fashioned clothes yet.’

She laughed. 'I'd really start wondering about you then, love. Now listen to some advice from someone who's been around for a few more years. Sometimes it's best not to think too much. You can give yourself all kinds of nightmares, or make yourself ill with worrying. I've seen it happen many a time.’

'You're probably right.' It sounded very much the same as what Dan had told me.

'I know I am.’

Maybe I was looking so hard I was seeing connections where there weren't any. I'd immersed myself in this for so long, I could no longer be objective. Perhaps I should step back and just get on with my own job? Yet something was nagging at me to persist. Something wouldn't let me rest until I found out the truth.

At the end of the day I walked home, physically tired and still a little bit depressed. I'd have liked to talk to Cynthia, but she'd already gone to bed. Nipper only raised his head from his basket to see if there was any chance of food, then sighed back into slumber. I had a cup of tea, watched some trivia on television, then went to bed myself.

Trevor was in the cinema office, sitting behind the big, imposing desk which was now upstairs. He wore a sharp seventies suit. His tie blazed with psychedelic patterns. The light from the computer screen gave a demonic cast to his features.

Jenny lounged in the projectionist's easy chair which had also moved downstairs. She had long wavy hair which was dyed bright red, and she looked like Mallory Knox from Natural Born Killers. She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out on the desk.

'What are we going to do, Trev?' she asked. 'He's on to us. He's going to keep on asking questions. How are we going to get him to give up?’

Trevor twirled a knife between his fingers. 'I've got an idea.’

She leaned forward. 'You mean, off him? Like we did that other nosy bugger?’

‘Exactly.'

'Where we going to put the body this time?’

'Right here, Jen. Under their stupid noses. By the time they even notice he's gone, we'll be out of here.’

I shrank into the corner, hearing them talk so easily of murder. Maybe they wouldn't see me if I kept very still. But just then Nipper appeared and began yapping at me. I tried shushing him and told him to bugger off under my breath, but it was too late.

'He must have heard every word we've said. Get him!' Jenny screamed. Trevor lunged at me.

I dodged and ran out of the office, down the passageway between screens two and three. Trevor was just behind. I glanced over my shoulder to see him pull out a gun. Then, as I looked around again I saw the well right in front me. The floor around it was all broken, with splintered planks and ripped carpet. The hole itself was enormous. I tried to jump it, but only made it half way, just managing to catch hold of an overhanging piece of floor as I fell. The plank flexed alarmingly under my weight. My feet dangled over empty air.

I looked up. Jenny stood above me. 'What shall we do with this one, Trev?’

'Get rid of him.' Trevor pointed his gun at me, taking careful aim. Jenny stepped forward, and ground the spiked heel of her shoe into my right hand. It hurt horribly. The second time she did it, I let go with that hand.

'How deep is it?' Jenny asked, lighting another cigarette as I dangled helplessly.

'Miles and miles, Jen. It might go all the way to Australia.' He laughed, then let off a shot. The bullet tore into the plank. Bits of wood splintered off and went down into the darkness. I knew that I would follow it very shortly.

Jenny balanced her heel on one of my fingers. She didn't press hard, not yet.

'You shouldn't go poking your nose into things that don't concern you,' she said, slowly increasing the pressure. ‘Bye, bye.’

She stamped on my hand. I let go. I fell backward, seeing their faces peering down over the edge of the well. It was exactly like that scene in Alien 3 where Ripley falls into the furnace, except an alien didn't burst from my chest.

I realised that if I could still think, I wasn't dead and although I was falling, there was no sense that it would ever end. I fell in total darkness; the world nothing but a pinprick in the sky far above me.

All of a sudden, I realised someone was with me. We were floating, arm in arm. Cliff smiled, and touched my face. 'You were right,' he said.

'What about?' I asked. 'About you? About what was going to happen? About the cinema?’

But he wouldn't answer, just smiled that perfect, infuriating smile. Then I woke up.