The Nightmare Stacks: A Laundry Files novel Read Online Free Page A

hospital ward, screaming and sizzling as the dawn light breaks through the window.
He can distract himself for a while if he starts counting the passers-by, but the counting thing is obsessive, and that doesn’t end well in a busy railway station at rush hour. So by the time Pete finally arrives, Alex is a bundle of raw nerve endings.
    “Wotcher, cock! Ow’s yer whippet?”
    Alex directs a withering glare over his shoulder. “Je ne comprends pas. Parlez-vous Yorkshire?”
    “Sorry, I thought that was how they spoke up here?” Pete grins, an expression that takes a decade off his face. Wearing jeans and a biker’s jacket with hands thrust deep in his pockets, he’s not exactly anyone’s picture of a spook – or a Man of the Cloth for that matter.
    “We’re not scousers. Listen, you’re late. We
could
get a bus but it’s tipping down and the nearest stop is a ten-minute walk away and anyway it isn’t dark yet. Can you sign for a taxi?”
    “Um.” Pete thinks about it. “There are two of us, so yes, as long as they give receipts and you countersign the claim.”
    The taxi rank is outside the front of the station, snaking around a weird circular sixties concrete building with a broad awning. (Originally the Transport Police offices, today it’s a bicycle shop.) Alex scuttles for cover from the elements, Pete following close behind with his wheelie bag. They join the queue, and a couple of minutes later they’re in the back of a Toyota creeping around the traffic-choked Inner Loop towards the bottom of Woodhouse Lane. Destination: Lawnswood Cemetery, out in the blasted wilderness beyond the northern arc of the Leeds ring road.
    “Have you visited the local office yet?” Pete asks.
    “Not yet.” Alex shrugs. “I’ve been holed up in my hotel room today, to be honest. Night shift suits me best for now.”
    “Awkward.” Pete leans against the other side of the taxi’s back seat. “Are you okay here? I mean, living out of a suitcase —”
    Alex cuts him off: “I’m fine. The sooner we look the site over and report back the sooner we can kill this stupid idea and go back to London.”
    “Kill —” Pete raises an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t want to move to Leeds?” Alex can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. “Bright lights, big city, affordable housing?”
    “Listen.” Alex tries not to spit: “I
grew up
in Leeds. I spent eighteen years here before I escaped. Trust me, it’s a
stupid
idea.”
    “But it’s going to —” Pete glances at the front seat, realizes that they’re in the presence of ears that do not possess a security clearance, and changes the subject. “Is the weather always like this?”
    “It could be worse. They could be looking at relocating to Manchester, where the locals are evolving webbed fingers and gill slits. But if you’re used to the southeast, everything hereabouts looks kind of gray and squishy.”
    “Leaky roofs. Hmm…”
     
DEAR DIARY:
    I’ve been part of the Laundry for nearly six months now, and I still don’t have a clue what I’m meant to be doing, but I’m told this is entirely normal and I’ll figure it out sooner or later if I live long enough.
    (I can’t make my mind up whether that last qualifier is entirely serious.)
    I spent the first week with no clear idea that the Laundry even existed, mind you. It was all Mhari’s idea. She used to be in Human Resources and she basically conscripted us under irregular circumstances which were later shoveled under the rug. (Probably because if they hadn’t been, some
very
embarrassing questions would have been asked.) It was for the best, I suppose, but it meant that from the very first month I was dumped in at the deep end with no idea what was going on, except for an endless string of interviews in dingy government offices, forms to fill in (don’t get me started on the Official Secrets Act, As Amended), and interminable committee meetings. It was like all the worst aspects of being back in