Nightmare Revelation

by David Longhorn

  A beached whale, he thought sadly, and the intense passion of the moment began to fade. It doesn't help that it smells a bit in here.

  The odd odor was hard to define, but might be down to a backed-up drain. He wrinkled his nose.

  “What's the matter, Tiger Pants?” breathed the girl, smiling down at him enigmatically.

  “Oh, nothing, Sugar Buns,” he replied, trying to get back into the moment.

  Timandra ran her hands through her hair. Hair that somehow looked less abundant than it had seemed a few moments before. Even more oddly, the girl's figure was no longer a voluptuous hourglass. It was as if her flesh had somehow flowed down her torso, shrinking her breasts and enlarging her belly.

  How could I have missed that tummy bulge? Bartram thought. Not to mention those rather thick thighs.

  “Not quite beach body ready, eh?” she said, voice silky, and oddly menacing.

  “Oh, no–” he began.

  Before he could say something complimentary, Timandra laughed and to Bartram’s displeasure, slapped his considerable stomach with both hands. It did not seem playful, and it hurt. Before he could protest, she punched him, hard, in the gut so that he wheezed and brought up some of his breakfast. Then her hands were around his throat, squeezing with extraordinary strength.

  As he struggled to tear her hands free, he saw her face change. She developed jowls, her eyes grew smaller, her nose turned red – what his wife called 'a boozer's conk'. The hairline had receded, now, so that only a few wisps of hair remained around the fringes of a bald scalp.

  It's me, my God it's me!

  With a tremendous effort, born mostly of blind panic, Bartram managed to heave the freakish assailant off him. His near-double fell sideways onto the carpet while he rolled off the opposite side. This put him further from the front door, but just a few feet from the bathroom.

  I can lock myself in, wait for help – yes, that's what I'll do!

  He staggered to the door, tore it open, hurled himself inside and slammed the door behind him. A moment later, a heavy weight struck the door and nearly knocked him down. Again, adrenaline came to his aid, allowing him to keep the door shut just long enough to turn the latch. Another blow almost jolted the door out of its frame. Bartram realized, with a sinking feeling, that waiting for help was not an option. And his phone was in his jacket, which was lying on the floor by the bed.

  “Come on out, Tiger Pants,” cooed the monstrous being. It now sounded deeper, more masculine, but still had a trace of Timandra's girlish voice.

  Bartram whined in terror and confusion. He realized that if he smashed the bathroom window he could shout for help. Simply breaking it might be enough. He tried to recall the layout of the flat, whether his security man would be likely to hear the shattering of glass. But his mind was not up to the task, so he simply started looking for something heavy enough to do the job.

  “Don't you want your Sugar Buns anymore?”

  The mocking plea was followed by a crash and a splintering sound. Bartram could not see anything on the shelves that might break a window. Then he thought of the shower head, which he recalled was metal. He yanked open the door of the shower cubicle, and the real Timandra fell out. She would have fallen face down, except that her head had been twisted around so that she was looking at him over her shoulder.

  Bartram fell on his backside screamed just as the door gave way. His doppelganger entered, still clad in a purple velvet basque and fishnets. The face that looked blankly down at him was his entirely, but the hands that reached for him were the black-taloned claws of a waking nightmare.

  ***

  “How much longer do we give the old perv?” demanded the government driver.

  Rather than bicker, the bodyguard just grunted and got out of the limousine. But he had not even reached the door of the block when it opened and Bartram came out.

  “Ready to go, sir?” asked the bodyguard.

  “Yes,” said Bartram, tersely, walking past the Scotland Yard officer.

  The bodyguard glanced over at the driver, who was keeping a straight face, then hurried forward to open the car door. Bartram got in without another word and sat, staring ahead, while the officer hurried around to get in on the other side.

  “Young lady not coming, sir?” asked the driver.

  “No,” Bartram replied instantly. “She's not feeling very well.”

  No, thought the bodyguard as he fastened his safety belt, I wouldn't either if I had to shag an old blimp like you.

  There was a pause while the driver waited for the minister to buckle up. When Bartram showed no sign of fastening his seatbelt the bodyguard gave a small sigh, reached over and did it for him. The driver caught the bodyguard's eye, raised a quizzical eyebrow, then eased the Daimler into the rush hour traffic.

  “Sorry to hear that, sir,” the bodyguard said. “Lot of bugs going 'round, this time of year.”

  This attempt at conversation achieved nothing. Bartram continued to stare ahead as if in a trance. The bodyguard found his gaze drawn to the old man's face, though he knew he should have been keeping alert for potential threats. There was something not quite right. Then he saw it. The minister was wearing eyeliner and lipstick. There was not much of it, and it had been clumsily applied. But the make-up was definitely there.

  Bartram suddenly turned to look at the bodyguard, who gave a wan smile and turned his attention to the traffic. Out of the corner of his eye, the officer saw the minister take out a hankie, lick it, and start dabbing at eyes and mouth.

  No wonder the bloody country's in a mess, he thought. Still, this could all make a choice chapter for my memoirs, if I ever get to write 'em.

  Chapter 5: Revelations

  Gould and Zoffany met in a cheap diner for breakfast. They were surrounded by shift workers. Gould felt incongruous among cleaners, truckers, nurses, taxi drivers, and other bleary-eyed folk looking forward to a well-earned day in bed. His well-cut suit was as out of place as his newly-shaved chin. He felt relief when Zoffany arrived, especially as she looked even less like a regular in her business-like pants suit.

  But at least none of Benson's little friends are likely to be here, he thought.

  Gould smiled and half-rose when Zoffany walked over to his table, but she barely managed to nod, eyes downcast. At first he thought it was because of the venue, then he realized that she looked drawn, tired. Unlike him, she had not slept well, if at all. He leaned toward her to kiss her cheek, indifferent to the crowded room. But she gave a small shake of the head and sat down at once.

  “Not feeling too good?” Gould asked.

  She shook her head, began playing with the handle of her bag. She still did not look at him. A waitress came up, dumped a laden plate in front of Gould, and asked Zoffany what she wanted. She ordered coffee. When the girl had gone, Gould asked, “What's wrong?”

  Zoffany took a deep breath and started to talk. She rattled off a string of technical terms, some of which were familiar to him. He had heard her talk this way before, and recognized it as a defensive reaction. It might be explained by her being in a strange place, but that seemed unlikely.

  She's had more disconcerting experiences than the menu in this place, he thought. Is she going to break up with me? The whole workplace affair thing might be too much for her.

  Gould reached out and touched Zoffany lightly on the back of one hand. She jerked back, then looked up at him for the first time.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Look, if this is about us–”

  “Oh God no!” she said loudly, so that heads turned at nearby tables.

  “No,” she insisted in a lower voice, “not that. That's not what I want. But if you–”

  “Why would I?” he interrupted. “You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

  Cheesy, he told himself. She'd be entitled to dump you after that.

  Zoffany reached out and took Gould's hand. He felt her quivering with emotion.

  “It's about the tests on the –
the false Lucy,” she explained. “I got a batch of results back this morning, and I need to tell you before the meeting.”

  Gould felt himself grow rigid at the mention of the creature that had imitated his sister.

  “Dissection found nothing, as I understand it,” he said, keeping his voice low. So far as he could tell, nobody was paying attention to them now.

  “Yes, we were looking for something like the talisman,” Zoffany replied. “An implanted shield of some kind. A field generator, if you like, that would keep them alive in our reality. But it was more fundamental than that.”

  Gould nodded.

  “A talisman seems to shift probabilities in the wearer's favor,” he said. “Not good enough if we're talking about general metabolic collapse.”

  “Yes, which is why X-rays and ultrasound scans found nothing either,” the scientist went on, looking even more uncomfortable. “It needed something at the cellular level. Which is why I had tissue samples sent to Zurich for analysis.”

  Gould felt her fingers tighten on his.

  “There are human cells distributed throughout the Interloper Lucy's body,” she said. “It's a more advanced form of life support, a symbiosis if you like. More advanced than the external symbiont used to keep George Blaisdell alive for all those years in the Phantom Dimension. He was some kind of test subject, I assume, to see if the two forms of life could be made compatible for extended periods.”

  Gould nodded, wondering why this breakthrough should make Zoffany so nervous. She had not relaxed her grip.

  It's a triumph, he thought. Benson will be delighted.

  “So,” he said slowly, “if we were to damage the human cells in some way, the Interloper would decay as usual?”

  “Mmm.” Zoffany responded brusquely. “But that's not – there's something else. I had the human DNA analyzed, tested it against examples we have on record. To see if it had been taken from any of the people who escaped at Machen.”

  “And there's a match?” he asked.

  She nodded. Gould was startled, then his mind began to come up with possibilities.

  “So it was Frankie Dupont's? She was over there for a while–”

  He stopped, looking at Zoffany's tormented expression.

  “It was a close match to your DNA,” she whispered. “Not identical, but close enough for a sibling.”

  Lucy.

  “So she could still be alive, Ted,” Zoffany insisted, both her hands now clasping his. “I had to let you know before Benson and the rest. We're not talking about huge numbers of cells, here, no more than a nurse might take for a blood sample and …”

  To Gould, the room seemed to become silent, as a great rushing sound began to overwhelm him. He saw Zoffany's lips moving, then looked down at the table. It occurred to him that his coffee was getting cold, the fried eggs on his plate congealing.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I know how hard this was for you.”

  Suddenly the room was back to normal. There was the chatter of weary customers, the clink of cutlery, and the tinny pop music from Capital FM. And there was Zoffany, reaching out to him again, trying to explain something else.

  “The Lucy Interloper,” she said, glancing around and leaning closer. “I told you that we dissected it. What I didn't say is that dissection didn’t kill it.”

  ***

  Denny checked in at the front desk, smiling at the guard on duty, who was evidently in a grumpy mood. She vaguely recognized the young woman, but perhaps she did not recall Denny.

  “Please put all your metal objects in the tray,” the guard said. “That includes phones, keys, belt buckles. And step through the archway.”

  Denny took out her keys, and put the phone and her key ring into the plastic tray. She forced herself not to look at the guard as the woman waved her through the security barrier. As expected, there was no alarm. Denny turned, walked around the desk, and reached for her possessions. She made a point of taking the phone first.

  The more precious item to a person with nothing to hide, she thought. Keeping it realistic.

  She did not bother smiling at the guard as she scooped up the keys, turned away, started to tuck the talisman into her pocket again.

  “Hey!”

  The guard had to be talking to Denny. She was earlier than usual, and there was nobody else in the foyer. She turned, looked at the stocky, short-haired young woman, but did not go back to the desk. Instead, Denny raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “You've seen them, right?” asked the guard.

  It took Denny a moment to realize what the woman was talking about.

  “Interlopers? Sure,” she replied, keeping her voice level.

  The guard glanced up at the closed-circuit TV camera.

  “How hard are they to kill?”

  “They're pretty tough,” Denny said, taking a couple of steps nearer the desk. “Harder than a human being, I would think. But I've seen it done.”

  She's just worried, she thought. She didn't sign up for this.

  “In that briefing you said they're really fast,” the guard continued. “And they can look like anybody. So if I get separated from my team–”

  The woman stopped, looked past Denny as the elevator dinged. Glancing around, Denny saw two young women emerging from the lift. Again, she recognized them. They were cleaners she had sometimes encountered when she got in early.

  “I'd better get going,” she told the guard.

  “Lots to do, eh?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The young woman dismissed Denny and focused on the approaching cleaners. Relieved at getting the talisman through the checkpoint, Denny did another smile-and-nod, and again got blanked. But then, as one of the women passed a few inches away from Denny, the cleaner looked sharply at her, and seemed to trip and almost fall. Her companion grabbed her arm and helped her keep her balance.

  Must work them like slaves, Denny thought, as she got into the elevator. Maybe she's sick and doesn't dare take time off to see a doctor.

  ***

  Jackie Marshall insisted on driving her son Josh to school that morning. After the killing of Fenton, she would not let him go anywhere alone. Josh had made a token protest at being treated 'like a baby', but had given in quickly. He, too, had been shocked by their dog's sudden, violent death.

  “What was it, Mum?” he asked yet again.

  He's looking for some kind of certainty, she thought. A sense of someone in control, that grown-ups know what's going on and will fix it.

  “I don't know,” she replied honestly. “If I did, I'd tell you. A wild animal, maybe.”

  “The last wolf in England was killed in the days of Shakespeare,” he said. “Miss Dalby told us that.”

  “Well, Miss Dalby is right, about native wolves,” Jackie said patiently. “But some misguided people have brought dangerous animals into this country from aboard. They think you can keep wolves, or lions, or tigers as pets.”

  “That's against the law,” said Josh matter-of-factly. “The police should stop them.”

  “They do when they know about it,” she said. “But the police rely on good people to help them, so you should always–”

  “Look!” Josh shouted, pointing off to one side.

  “Don't do that when Mummy's driving!” said Jackie.

  But the boy was insistent. Jackie slowed, peered out of the window across the snowbound landscape. In the first light of morning, it was hard to make anything out. But for a second, she thought she saw two shapes that might have been dogs running into a plantation of pine trees.

  “Wild animals,” said Josh, looking at her round-eyed. “But not wolves.”

  Jackie could not be sure how much or how little she had seen. She decided to say nothing more and Josh seemed content to drop the subject. In fact, he looked so unhappy that she decided to drop him off quickly so as not to attract too much attention from the other kids.

  “Remember, you wait here for me,” she told him as he got out. “You don't
go on the bus, don't talk to any strangers. If I'm late I'll call the school.”

  “Yes, mum,” said the boy wearily as he climbed out of the battered Range Rover.

  Jackie was about to add a few more warnings when she bit her tongue.

  Don't want to show him up in front of his friends, she thought. He's a sensible kid.

  Jackie was just pulling away from the school gates when a teacher she recognized appeared, waving her to stop. She rolled down the window, feeling her heart lurch. Josh's reports had been good. But there could have been other problems.

  “Sorry to bother you,” the teacher said, “but you live near the Murrays, I believe?”

  “Yes,” she replied, feeling only slight relief that this was not about her or Josh. “Is there a problem?”

  “I'm not sure,” the teacher admitted. “But the children weren't on the school bus this morning, which is odd. I did try to call Mrs. Murray to check but nobody answered. And recently both children have been very subdued …”

  The teacher trailed off.

  Zoe and Ben have been a lot less outgoing than usual, Jackie thought. And Sallie's been depressed.

  “I could call in on the way home,” Jackie said. “It's not far out of my way. If they get a lift in from their dad there's no harm done.”

  “That would be great,” the teacher said with relief.

  The Murray farmhouse was dark as Jackie steered the Range Rover up the track, bumping over frozen, rutted earth. She would have expected to see a light in the kitchen, at the very least. When she pulled into the farmyard, she got another surprise. Jon Murray's car was still parked near the back door.

  Maybe some kind of crisis, Jackie thought. Accident, perhaps.

  Jackie tried to imagine the kind of problem that would make it impossible for anyone in the family to answer the phone. She thought again of poor Fenton's corpse, torn flesh and bloodied fur. Jackie felt a sudden impulse to leave but instead she got out and went to the kitchen window. It was hard to see inside; the winter morning light was feeble. But she could make out the table, overturned at one side of the room. And from behind it, some legs in jogging pants protruded.