All Hollow Read online

  A Dark Horror. Literally.

  SIMEON COURTIE

  with Hal Stewart

  First published in Great Britain by Simantics Ltd

  Copyright © Simeon Courtie 2019

  Available in paperback

  Cover design by ebooklaunch.com

  The moral right of the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  P-book ISBN 978 0 9571980 2 9

  E-book ISBN 978 0 9571980 3 6

  Preface

  I had the idea for setting a horror inside the tunnels of Gibraltar after a generous army officer with a huge set of keys gave me a private tour in 2011. I was working on the Rock for a short time as a presenter on the forces radio station BFBS. When my producer friend, Hal, and I decided to write a horror screenplay a few years later, those tunnels called from the dark.

  As ardent fans of the genre we wanted to take some standard horror tropes and twist them in an unexpected way, pull the rug out from beneath the feet of fans like us. Later, when I decided to write the story as the book you hold now, we discussed changes. One was whether those caricatures were too derivative, obsolete even, in 2019. Ultimately, horror won. Fans will enjoy spotting recognisable character-types, each a little altered, each luring the reader into a false sense of the familiar. For those new to the genre, welcome! It’s four friends going on holiday - what can possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 1

  Sunshine, money, pleasure, death; these are the trades of a rock called Gibraltar. A geographical anomaly, a crooked spit of land, an angry stone that God shook from his shoe, she dangles from Spain’s southern shores, clings like a parasite, proudly independent of her host, and yet unable to let go. A fortified arsenal for over a thousand years, from 7th-century Moors to the modern British military, the Rock’s importance as a strategic location between Europe and Africa, as a gateway from the North Atlantic to the Mediterranean Sea, waned in peace-time Europe. Her teeth lost their bite. By the early 21st-century she had fewer guns but more cash. Gibraltar’s ‘off-shore’ British status made her a tax-efficient base for hundreds of banks. Duty-free alcohol and tobacco lured a regular supply of cruise liners, spilling their bloated contents onto cobbled streets to ravenously consume endless offers of bargain booze and cheap cigarettes.

  Into this peculiar melting pot of isolated British locals, dispassionate military personnel and sun-blushed tourists flew a young woman who wasn’t supposed to be there.

  By the age of twenty-five Petra’s life was supposed to have been sorted. The Masters would have led to a PhD then a research post, maybe an overseas project in South America or Madagascar. She’d be Dr Petra Collins, making waves, pushing boundaries, using her knowledge and passion for microbiology to discover new species, new bacteria, new antibiotics. She’d be saving the planet, saving the human race. But instead she was in a cramped seat on a cheap airline, barely able to save herself from the wreckage of a relationship she’d left behind.

  ‘You all right, hun?’ asked Carly, her recently rediscovered school friend in the seat next to her.

  Petra squirmed, freeing her feet into the carpeted aisle. ‘Sure.’

  For the chance to stretch her legs occasionally on the short flight from London, she’d sacrificed the window seat and was now trying to glimpse a view across her neighbours’ laps. Those laps belonged to Carly and her boyfriend, Dane, who’d bagged the window seat. Across the aisle to Petra’s right was the fourth member of this last-minute holiday troupe, Krishna, Dane’s mate from work. Krishna was glued to his phone.

  As the plane banked for its final approach, the oval window presented a view of Gibraltar that you don’t see in promotional videos. Rather than a sparkling sea lapping at the feet of a majestic jewel of the Mediterranean, Petra saw leaden clouds press down on angry, frothing waves that boiled and chomped at a giant, jagged rock pointing crookedly towards them. The mountainous grey wedge wore a shawl of speckled green down one side. On its peak flew a Union Jack, pulled taut in a bracing wind. As they descended, Petra picked out streets and buildings scattered around the edges. Then a sudden jolt of turbulence shook everyone to attention, filling the cabin with gasps and nervous laughter.

  Carly’s manicured, lilac-painted nails were digging into Dane’s strong grip. ‘He can cut that out for a start.’ She frowned towards the front of the plane. Petra smiled, sank back into her seat, and let the aircraft be jostled and buffeted by the wind.

  ‘Poniente,’ Krishna said, holding his phone screen towards her.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Poniente. That’s what this is.’

  ‘The plane?’

  ‘The wind. Look.’ He jiggled his phone for her attention. ‘New app, like Wiki for weather. Says that this morning Gibraltar will get the Poniente.’ He read from the screen: ‘a fresh westerly wind that blows in from the Atlantic.’

  ‘Ah, OK then. Good knowledge. I thought using phones on planes was against the rules.’

  ‘Hooked it up to the WiFi … on a plane! That blows my mind, and only cost me eight quid.’

  ‘Right.’ Petra nodded, pretending that was good value. The aircraft tipped and shimmied. Beyond Krishna were an American couple who squeezed each other’s hand, and beyond them, the runway loomed large in the window.

  ‘Want to look?’ He offered the sleek, shiny handset to her again. Krishna’s cheeks were podgy when he smiled, his stubble perfectly groomed within symmetrical lines, like a neat child’s colouring-in.

  ‘It’s fine, thanks.’

  The bang as the plane slammed into the concrete was accompanied by screams and chaos as several overhead lockers sprang open and bags became missiles. With a terrifying SWISH a broken-glass guillotine blade sliced through the air past Petra’s face, missed her shoulder by millimetres and shattered on the floor closely followed by a crashing picture frame.

  Above the shrill yelps of Carly deafening her left ear, Petra heard Krishna shout, ‘Are you OK?’ The smashed glass was scattered around a dark print of an oil painting in a broken ornate frame: Jesus surrounded by gesticulating bodies, pointing to a man wrapped in cloth.

  The plane slowed to a dawdle as if clattering to the ground like a tossed toy was all in a day’s work, and Petra breathed again. The relaxed drawl of the captain came over the speakers, a voice like honey, an accent like that of an old-money cad. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Gibraltar. Apologies if you felt a slight bump back there. Bit breezy for the old kite this morning. Almost spilled my Martini. Hu, hu, hrrrr.”

  ‘Is he joking?’ Carly was cross. ‘Is he havin’ a bleedin’ laugh? My mate nearly died back ’ere!’ she shouted.

  ‘Shhhh, it’s fine.’ Petra patted her hand.

  ‘You could’ve lost a bloody arm!’

  Dishevelled passengers were unpicking themselves from the debris of bags and jackets while the embarrassed American woman was leaning across Krishna’s lap to apologise to Petra. The painting was Jesus raising Lazarus. She’d seen it at the National Gallery in London. They’d paid extra for the frame. The husband was shaking his head. He’d told her they could get it framed back home, but would she listen?

  ‘Really,’ Petra reassured everyone. ‘I’m fine!
’

  Some time around the middle of the afternoon, the wind dropped, the sun appeared and there was only one obvious place for the friends to go. The Rock beckoned.

  ‘Long way from Harlow, right?’ smiled Carly.

  ‘Hmmmm.’ Petra was gazing across the glittering sea from their high vantage point on a steep path leading up the side of Gibraltar’s central feature, over a thousand feet of towering grey limestone. They’d lost the boys a few turns back on the winding path up from the town, and she now took in the view, hands on hips. As she leaned into a large shrub to sniff at a clump of its orange flowers, Carly gestured to Petra’s top and said, ‘This is nice. Work?’

  ‘Of course. Forty per cent discount.’

  ‘It’s lush, I love it.’

  The top was nothing special, a fairly cheap T-shirt with a subtle white and silver-grey camouflage pattern. She wore slim denim shorts almost to the knee and faded red Converse pumps. Almost everything Petra wore was from the high street clothing shop where she worked. As an assistant manager, she wasn’t obliged to be ‘on brand’ while working, but the hefty discount meant her wardrobe barely left that label, that season, from the rails in that actual shop. While they waited for the boys to catch them up she reached behind her head, effortlessly slid a hair-band onto her wrist and released the clutch of braided Afro hair into a springy mop. With a shake of her head the braids whipped around, dropping into a curtain across her face. She grinned at Carly through twisted strands.

  ‘Beautiful,’ her friend agreed.

  ‘I am, aren’t I?’ said Petra, standing strong and pushing her chest out. They both laughed and Petra pulled her hair back into a surprisingly neat, braided ponytail, snapping the hair-band into a double loop with expert speed.

  Petra was taller and broader than her friend. Physically, they were complete opposites. Carly was petite and blonde. Her ample chest and pinched waist had made her a boy-magnet since she and Petra had become friends at secondary school. Petra had been stocky, muscular, a mixed-race athlete without the passion for athletics. From the age of thirteen Petra realised that most of the boys who showed an interest in her were in fact trying to get closer to Carly. That was fine. Petra wasn’t as confident around boys as her mate, so she was happier keeping out of their way. It wasn’t until they parted after Sixth Form that Petra discovered the opposite sex. Maybe she’d needed to be out of Carly’s shadow. Carly could never be outshone.

  ‘Seriously, Petra, thanks for coming. I couldn’t believe it when you said yes.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. If you hadn’t found me on Facebook God knows what I’d be doing now. Languishing – no, festering – at home. Except it’s not home. It’s a room. A room in a shared house. I’d be festering “at room”.’

  Carly’s face creased with concern. ‘It won’t be for long, hun.’

  ‘Seriously. Thanks for the lifeline. We lose touch for almost six years and you find me at the exact moment I need a friend. Textbook Carly.’

  ‘How is everything … with Zach?’

  ‘Oh, no change. Definitely over. I haven’t heard from him since that drunk text I told you about. I think he’s got the message.’

  ‘You definitely don’t want him back, then?’

  ‘No way. Definitely not.’

  ‘Was he that bad? I wish I’d met him.’

  Petra thought about this for a moment. ‘To be fair he wasn’t awful. But if you’d seen the texts he sent that girl. More than just workmates, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Dick.’

  ‘We were falling out a bit even before that, to be honest.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you’ve deleted all your pictures. What did he look like?’

  ‘Who can I compare him to? Y’know Professor Brian Cox?’

  ‘The hot scientist off the TV? If Zach looks like him I want his number!’

  ‘No, he doesn’t, but I kind of thought he did. I was bedazzled by his PhD and his … geekiness, I suppose.’

  ‘Geekiness? Oh Jesus, Petra found herself a nerd. I coulda told you that would happen back at school.’

  ‘I am a nerd, or had you forgotten, Little Miss Cheerleader?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ smiled her old comrade.

  ‘It was the gaming in the end. I probably could’ve forgiven the inappropriate texts, but we were already doomed. There were three of us in the relationship: me, Zach and whatever game he was currently addicted to. There’s a limit to how excited I can get about conquering another planet in Hyperiums.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘Java-coded text-based multiplayer.’

  ‘Cheers. Much clearer.’

  ‘I mean, I miss him, of course I do, but I think what I actually miss is the apartment, the regular rhythm of our routines, cooking for two, all that.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Petra, you sound like an old woman! He isn’t dead! And neither are you! We’re twenty-five! In our prime, girl!’

  ‘Correct, Miss Porter! Which is why I leapt at your invite to …’ She looked around. ‘… possibly the weirdest holiday destination I’ve ever seen.’

  Carly rolled her eyes. ‘Dane’s idea. S’OK, though. We’ll have a laugh, won’t we?’

  ‘He seems lovely. All outdoorsy and … fit! You’re a lucky girl, Carls.’

  ‘Yeah, he’ll do. For now.’ She cackled and they saw two men round the corner on the path below them. ‘Here they come.’

  ‘Let’s see the ring again.’

  Carly splayed the back of her hand towards her friend. A glittering rock shone from her third finger.

  Petra examined it closely. ‘I love it. Every time I look at it I love it more. It looked good in the airport, but now we’re in the sun … wow. What stone is that?’

  ‘The lavender colour is tanzanite. In Chinese culture it means long life and good fortune.’

  ‘And you love a Chinese.’

  Carly laughed. ‘The middle’s diamond, obvs. I wasn’t gonna let him get away with anything less.’

  ‘Carly gets her way. How unusual.’ Petra raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope Dane knows what he’s in for.’ She returned her attention to the flowering shrubs, running her fingers through them to release the heavy scent, and then pushing her head into them like a botanist, inhaling their perfume.

  The two men approached and Carly called out, ‘Take your time!’ The taller man, Dane, wore khaki cargo pants, clean trainers and a tight blue T-shirt that did nothing to hide his muscular torso. He had the short-cropped hair and lazy smile of a catalogue model, not the sales executive he was. On first meeting him just hours before, Petra’s initial thought had been, ‘classic Carly’. She watched Krishna puffing alongside him, rounder in shape, baggier of clothing, and looking altogether less athletic. More like asthmatic. His roomy shorts and Hawaiian shirt were a bold look. Petra smiled at them and heard Krishna saying to Dane, ‘It’s the little monkeys that freak me out. Perched in dark corners like tiny evil old men.’

  Dane ignored him and smiled at Carly, slipping a hand around her waist.

  She said, ‘What took you? You’re supposed to be the climber.’

  ‘Krishna and that bloody phone. Had to spend ten minutes setting up his carbon fibre selfie-stick.’

  ‘You didn’t have to sit next to him on the plane,’ Petra chipped in.

  ‘Most expensive phone on the market and no idea how to use it,’ Dane added.

  ‘Must’ve taken a dozen pictures of his feet.’

  ‘Or his crotch.’

  ‘Er …’ interrupted Krishna, affronted. ‘I’m right here, y’know.’

  ‘How long are we going to be inside this rock?’ Carly said. ‘I am not going home without a tan.’

  Krishna rummaged in the pockets of his baggy beige shorts, pulling out receipts, sweet wrappers and eventually a crumpled flyer. ‘Says here … erm, about an hour.’ Petra smirked and didn’t believe for a moment that he’d read that anywhere.

  ‘I came here for sun, sangria and ssssssomething else,’ winked C
arly, pinching Dane’s bum.

  ‘Sangria?’ said Dane. ‘That’s Spain, darlin’. Half an hour that way. This is Gibraltar. British through and through.’

  ‘G and Ts all round,’ smiled Krishna.

  ‘Yeah, whatever. I can still get a tan if I’m not being dragged around some old cave.’

  ‘It’s not a cave, actually, Carly.’ Krishna lectured. ‘It’s tunnels.’

  ‘Great,’ said Carly, her flat, bored voice hitting Krishna’s withering tone right back at him.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Dane. ‘Might be fun.’

  ‘It’ll be brilliant!’ said Krishna, recharged and enthused. ‘Miles of man-made tunnels, a whole town, hidden, sealed off for decades. They started doing tours last year. I watched a video on YouTube.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ asked Carly.

  ‘Dunno, it was completely black. Couldn’t see a thing.’

  ‘Really?’

  He smirked. ‘No, Carly. I’m joking. There are lights in there, tour guides, there’s probably a gift shop. You’re up for it, right, Petr – WOAH!’ He recoiled and sprang away from her. Carly’s head jerked around to the source of Krishna’s shock and she squealed. A spider the size of a child’s hand was on Petra’s shoulder. Dane said, ‘Holy shhh –’ and was interrupted by Krishna.

  ‘Stay. Very. Still.’

  ‘What? What is it?’ asked Petra, cocking her head, trying to pull focus on whatever was behind her ear.

  ‘Don’t move!’ squealed Carly.

  Krishna swiped his thumb across his phone screen. ‘Somewhere on here I’ve got an app for the coastguard.’ Then they leaned back and made an ‘OHHH’ sound as the dark brown spider trod forwards across the brow of Petra’s collar bone. Its earthy-coloured abdomen was bulbous and bore a dark brown stripe down its length. Each thick leg tapered to a hard, skeletal point. At the front of the spider’s body were two clearly visible fangs curled under its head like holstered weapons.