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

their office-mate sleeps in a coffin under the desk and leaves bloodstained cups in the break room sink.
    In the absence of evidence that this was the
only
compulsion woven into the brickwork of Dansey House, Mahogany Row came to the decision to sell the site for redevelopment and move elsewhere. Which then left them with a big headache: where to relocate to. The New Annex, where I was initially assigned, was ruled out. It turns out that the New Annex isn’t proof against pissed-off vampire elders. Also, it’s too small. Apparently we’re facing some sort of nightmarish conjunction – due to a combination of circumstances we’re in a period when computational magic gets easier to do, and the effects are amplified – so the organization needs room to grow. And, London property prices being what they are, a decision was made to move most of us out of the big smoke.
    Leeds is a big metropolitan zone in the geographical middle of England, sitting at the intersection of a bunch of major transport routes. I suppose it was inevitable that it’d be one of the top options, along with Manchester, Newcastle, or possibly Cheltenham (because of the strong GCHQ presence). I come from Leeds. Which is why, even though I’m a wet-behind-the-ears probationer who’s up to his ears with training courses, they saw fit to shove me on the train up here with Pete to look around various outlying facilities before we get the grand tour of the proposed new headquarters building in the city center, Quarry House, and go to town on its perimeter wards.
    Please God, why couldn’t it be Manchester instead?
     
    The taxi takes almost a quarter of an hour to slither out of the city center and onto the Otley Road. But they get there in the end, and while Pete adds the receipt to his battered paper organizer Alex climbs out and looks around. The car has parked beside a rather forbidding hedge, on the other side of a dual carriageway from a row of poplars. Beyond the trees he can just make out the lights of the police station. There are few houses hereabouts, but a driveway leads out of sight beyond the hedge. And it is, predictably, raining even harder.
    “We’re not going to have much luck getting a taxi home from here, are we?” Pete says as the cab pulls away.
    “Nope. There are buses, but they’ll only be running every twenty minutes at this time of evening.” Alex doesn’t explain that he has this part of the Leeds bus timetable memorized cold. He turns and heads up the gravel drive, avoiding the worst of the pothole puddles. They come to a chain-link gate and an unfriendly sign: DEPARTMENT OF WORK AND PENSIONS – THIS PROPERTY IS MAINTAINED BY TELEREAL TRINIUM – KEEP OUT – G4S SECURITY. The padlock that holds the gate shut is grimy with rust stains, but a prickling in Alex’s fingers tells him that the site is heavily warded. Only authorized visitors will be able to get in. “Did you bring the key?”
    “Sure.” Pete fiddles with the padlock, and they step through the gate. The drive dog-legs behind another hedge before it passes out of view of the road. Black poles surmounted by the hooded eyes of CCTV cameras stare at them, and Alex suppresses a shudder of dread. Beyond the second hedgerow they come to a low building with narrow frosted-glass windows set high under its eaves, like a public toilet or a cricket pavilion. There are more signs: KEEP OUT, ENTRY FORBIDDEN, THIS SITE IS ALARMED. “Do you ever get the feeling that we’re not welcome?” Pete asks.
    “Hello, ma’am, we’re from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, do you have a few minutes to talk about our Lord and Savior?”
    Pete winces as he produces a key and tries it in the door lock. It doesn’t fit. He fumbles with the keyring in the chilly rain, trying various others until he finally gets a result. The door creaks open to reveal a bare concrete-floored lobby surrounding a circular stairwell, descending into darkness. “Get the lights, will you? I know you can see