Playing Dead: Book One of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 5

Another Friday night. Another night filled with the claustrophobic crush of the dance floor, clammy hands trying their luck and desperate to grasp flesh, any flesh, sticky heat rising between the bodies of strangers as the mass of revellers moved together in a rhythmic display of public foreplay, the monotonous beat of the club music raising heartbeats and fusing them all in a tight hypnotic bind.

Having successfully fended off two attempts to tug me down into the melee, I had taken refuge near the central bar, hugging myself tight into one corner, away from the crowd baying for more drinks, more cocktails, more double shots and more anything that would leave them almost comatose by midnight. The zombies were already in full-force. Sweat-covered faces once perfectly painted were now drained of colour. Hair once coiffured and teased to defy gravity, now plastered to skulls and hanging limp. The zombie hoard swayed and staggered, salivated and groaned, clutching onto any unsuspecting passerby who hadn't yet fallen victim but no doubt soon would, waking up tomorrow wondering why the hell they looked half-dead and could taste nothing but the foul rot of the morning-after.

I had lost Clara about fifteen minutes before and had watched her as she succumbed to the molten mass of bodies, her long blonde hair soon swallowed up by the multitude and so I had admitted defeat and retreated, as I always did, to a safe corner. Or at least, the safest place I could possibly find in a zombie stronghold. I'd nursed a vodka for a while, taking small considered sips and wondering when was socially acceptable to call it a night and scuttle off home.

Eventually after another hand crept out of the darkness and ran down my arm, no doubt searching for the juiciest portion, I decided enough was more than enough and headed back to the dance floor, scanning the crowd for Clara; a task that proved fruitless despite standing there for about twenty minutes, even daring to throw myself into the boiling pot at one point, scrambling between the bodies hoping that I would see the unmistakable swing of her hips and toss of her hair. Squeezing myself out of the fray and walking the club three times, I still couldn't find her and I started to feel uneasy by her absence. I should have found her by now, or she should have found me, as I desperately wandered, seeking out all the darkest corners where I thought I might find her. I was used to being temporarily abandoned as she hunted her prey, but usually she returned, a huge brash smile on her pretty face and clutching her phone, another number stored in her little mobile black book.

Retrieving my phone from my bag to text her, I immediately spotted two missed calls from Clara and panicked, cursing myself for not checking it sooner and hoping to God she was okay. I half-ran to the exit, knowing I wouldn't hear a damn thing whilst inside the club and hit the call button as soon as my feet hit the pavement outside.

It rang for a maddeningly long time and just when I thought it would go to voice-mail, Clara answered, her voice shrill in my ear.

"Megs, baaaaaaby, where the hell have you been? I've been ringing you for ages," she drawled. She didn't sound in trouble. Just drunk. Clara-drunk.

"You rang me twice and I've only just seen the missed calls on my phone," I replied, not wanting to raise my voice above the chatter of the smokers and doormen outside.

Someone wolf-whistled and I glanced up to see a taxi driver leaning out of his window, a grubby baseball cap that was probably once white worn backwards on his head, leering at me and beckoning me to get in. I shook my head and took a step back into the light emanating through the foyer doors.

"Where the hell are you?" I hissed into the phone. "I've been looking for you for bloody ages."

A giggle fuelled my growing annoyance. "That's why I've been trying to ring you, silly. Do you remember Rob? You know the one? Tall, dark, reeeeeealllly fucking sexy?"