by Max China
The Night of the Mosquito
A gripping psychological thriller
Max China
First published by skinnybirdproductions: September 2015
The right of Max China to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.
This work is entirely a product of the author’s imagination, and is therefore a work of fiction.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Copyright © 2015 Max China
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9571312-5-5 Paperback
Also available in e-book/Kindle format
Cover by Akiragraphicz
DEDICATION
In memory of my late father, Stefan.
In time, Dad, we’ll meet again.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to thank everyone involved in the creation of this book, but most especially the talented author of The Trilogy of Noor, Chloe McDonald for her much-valued advice and continuing encouragement. I’m extremely grateful.
Contents
Cover Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
A message from Max
About the author
Prologue
Churchend, Bristol. Monday, August 10, 1987. 7:57 a.m.
Dragged over uneven ground between the gravestones of the churchyard next to St. Michael’s Orphanage, five-year-old Timothy Salter stumbled, almost falling. ‘Stop it. You’re hurting my hand,’ he squealed.
Ahead of him, the girl’s blonde pigtails swished from side to side as she ran. She didn’t turn round. ‘Quiet, Timmy,’ she said, in low tones. ‘Do you want us to get caught?’
He pulled against her, digging in with his heels.
Six years older and twice his size, his sister had little trouble jerking him back into a slow trot.
‘Sarah, where are we going?’ the little boy asked.
‘We can’t stay. We have to get as far away from here as we can.’
‘But why?’ He tried snatching his hand from her grasp.
Sarah tightened her grip. ‘Stop that,’ she said, her voice harsh, yet barely above a whisper.
Tears brimmed in Timothy’s eyes. His lips trembled. ‘But why?’
Sarah’s face crumpled. Oh, Mum. Dad. Wherever you are. How can I tell him? Her mother spoke softly, as if she were right next to her, and not just in her mind. He’s too young to understand. ‘When you’re older, Timmy,’ Sarah said, ‘I’ll explain.’
‘I’m scared,’ he sobbed.
‘So am I,’ she said. ‘Now, come on.’
A hundred yards further, where the churchyard met the lane, they reached a low stone wall and stopped, both of them panting. Sarah released him, placed both hands, palms down, on top of the smooth coping, and swinging her leg up, she straddled it. ‘Give me your hand, Timmy.’
He held it out. She took it. Bracing herself, she hauled him up next to her. ‘Everything will be all right,’ she said, jumping to the ground. Reaching up, she helped him down.
The caretaker stood in the boiler house doorway and watched the children clear the wall. A simple man, he’d done what he thought best. He knew the men who came to the home in the dead of night were powerful, untouchable. He’d seen what had happened to the new girl the night before, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before they went into the little boy’s wing. If he blew the whistle, they’d destroy him. The magistrate would have him put away in prison.
He would give the children a few more minutes, and then report that he’d mislaid his keys.
In the dry and dusty country lane, tall trees leaned over the fleeing children. Up ahead by the crossroads, alert to their approach, a crow hopped, reluctant to leave the remains of his meal behind. Sarah stared at the carrion with disgust as they ran past. The head was flattened against the road; she recognised what the dead animal was by its ears.
‘Yuck,’ the little boy said. ‘What is it?’
‘A rabbit, I think. Come on, Timmy, you’ll have to run faster than this,’ she urged. ‘We have to hurry. Any minute now, they’ll find out we’re gone and come after us.’
Sarah stopped at the crossroads. The little boy fell in behind her. ‘Oh, God, Timothy. Which way do we go?’
‘That way,’ he said without hesitation, pointing to a lane that ran downhill. With barely enough room for a car to pass between its high tree-lined banks, it seemed the safest option. Overhead, the canopy of leaves gave the appearance of a long, dark tunnel. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. I don’t think they’d expect us to go down there.’
Sarah hadn’t a clue where they were. They’d passed only one house in the last five minutes. She’d almost knocked for help, but the cottage being so close to the orphanage worried her. She needed to get them to a police station. Running downhill gave them a brief respite. At the bottom of the lane, there was a level crossing. The barriers were down. ‘There’s a telephone box, Timmy,’ she said, excited. Then she remembered they had no money. You don’t need to pay for a 999 call, she recalled her mum had once told her. ‘Timmy, over here.’
She heaved on the door and squeezed through the gap as quick as she could before the door closed on her. She stared in disbelief. The handset was missing. Pushing her way out backwards, she took Timothy’s hand and approached the railway track. She looked both ways and saw nothing. She listened intently. A car! Coming down the lane. She shot round the end of the barrier, pulling her brother alongside. ‘Come on, Timmy, we have to go!’ Beside her, the rails hummed. She looked down the track. A train approached in the distance. The car’s engine grew louder as the driver changed down through the gears.
‘Let’s go,’ she cried. ‘We’ve got enough time to make it!’ She ran forward. Timothy pulled back. Dragging him forward, she tripped. Her foot wedged behind the rail. She tugged at it to free herself, s
creaming, ‘Go, Timmy! Go! I’ll follow.’ Metal screeching against metal, sparks flew from the beneath the wheels. Through the glass of the cab, Sarah could see the driver’s face, his mouth open and his eyes wide, full of horror. It isn’t going to stop! Her little brother’s feet skidded, scrabbling for purchase as he held onto her hand, desperately trying to pull her clear. The train sped towards them. Sarah screamed and let go of his hand. Timothy fell backwards out of the path of the train.
He would never speak again.
Chapter 1
Ashmore Top Security Hospital. August 10, 2014. 8:07 a.m.
Blood. Warm. Sweet. Saline. The man named Wolfe acknowledged the contradiction. Salt has a sweetness all of its own. A sweet taboo. He sighed. The taste of his own blood could not compare. Hunger consumed him. Forbidden fruit. Fresh meat.
Salivating, becoming erect, he touched himself, cursing the devil. You promised me the Earth for my soul and delivered nothing.
Biting down hard on his lower lip, he closed his eyes and then swallowed. The flavour, vile, tainted by hospital diet, revolted him.
They were moving him. On a bloody Sunday. Somewhere, he’d been told, better equipped to deal with him. From the angle of the sun, he knew it was almost time. Will I go quietly? He grinned. A trickle of bloody saliva escaped the corner of his mouth. Wiping it on the back of his hand, he examined it before licking it clean. Lull them into a false sense of security. That’s what I’ll do.
The tramp of heavy boots announced the approach of a squad of guards. They paused while steel doors were opened and banged shut.
More men than before. After the last time, it was to be expected. He’d got a taste of meat before they’d overpowered him, before tenderizing his six-foot-ten-inch frame to a bloody pulp.
The footsteps resumed and then came to a halt outside his cell. He jack-knifed from the bed and crossed the room, ready.
Guard Chisolm peered through the observation panel in the steel door. From the other side, Wolfe glowered at him.
‘Stand away from the door,’ Chisolm said.
‘You coming in?’
‘Step back, Wolfe.’
Instinct dictated he should stay where he was, defiant. And then he changed his mind. Lull them into a false sense of security . . . Wolfe took a backward step.
The outer skin of the medication hatch grated as it slid open. At just a couple of inches short of Wolfe’s great height, Chisolm stooped with some discomfort and put the plastic cup he carried on the flat surface. ‘Drink this,’ he growled, and slamming the steel plate shut, peered through the viewer to watch the giant patient’s approach.
‘Got anything good in it?’
‘Something to help you relax. That’s all.’
Wolfe shrugged, took a step forward, and collected the cup.
‘You know how this works,’ Chisolm said. ‘Easy or hard. Now, let me see you drink it.’
The patient swallowed it like a fine whisky.
‘Best get on the bunk, Wolfman. That little cocktail’s going to hit you hard. We don’t want any accidents, do we? And you know what they say, the bigger you are, the harder—’
‘You’d know better than me about taking a fall, Chisolm,’ Wolfe sneered.
‘Is that right?’ the guard said. ‘Now get on the bed.’
Chapter 2
Hilltop Cottage, Churchend. 8:12 a.m.
Michael Anderson carried a silver breakfast tray, laden with toast, marmalade, and coffee through the open French doors and onto the timber patio deck. He checked the position of the sun, and satisfied the shadow he cast was conducive to glare-free reading, he put the tray on the open slats of the hexagonal table and went back inside to collect his latest reading material.
He thought about his trip to Brighton, wandering the lanes as he’d so often done with Margot. Did I really go there yesterday? If it wasn’t for the book, the whole thing could have been a dream. He’d browsed as if she were still with him, peering into stores that held no interest for him out of a habit that hadn’t existed in years. He did a double-take as he walked past the front of a second-hand bookstore called Fortunes. Intrigued, he entered the store. The shop had been decorated in gipsy themes, the centrepiece an old vardo. At the base of the steps to the caravan, he’d spotted a bargain bucket. Anderson wasn’t usually given to rummaging for cut-price deals, but a book, its title poking out from one side, caught his attention. Problem Child, by Stella Bird. The author wasn’t anyone familiar to him. He extracted it from the piled-up contents of the wicker basket and purchased it on a whim without looking at the pitch on the back cover.
It was after nine o’clock when he arrived home, the evening all but gone. Stuck in traffic, he’d chewed on mints to stave off hunger, and now that he’d made a cheese sandwich, it tasted of cardboard. After two bites, he threw what was left in the bin and climbed the stairs to run a bath. He turned the taps on and then stood by the washbasin while it filled, staring at his reflection in the mirrored cabinet. A familiar debate started inside his head. You’re tired. You don’t need those. But I sleep so much better when I’ve had them. He opened the cabinet, took out a box of Nytol, and automatically popped two of them through the foil. He no longer took the pills to help him sleep; he’d acquired a psychological dependency on them. He swallowed them and then got undressed. He lowered himself into the water.
Half an hour later, already in the grip of the pills he’d taken, his initial glance at the back-page pitch stirred long-forgotten memories. The author stated that the book was a tribute to a psychiatrist who hadn’t been afraid to experiment with new ideas. That she’d assembled the book based on the notes and diaries of Dr Ryan. My old friend Ryan? Couldn’t be. A sense of jubilance had risen in him. How right he’d been to purchase the book! Stella Bird’s introduction ran to several pages. She apologised for not using his Christian name and explained that she’d only learned it after his death. Out of respect, she’d refer to him by his surname, the way he’d preferred in life.
Ryan, he mused, such a character. Although a friend, he never knew his first name either. Once, when Anderson had asked him for it, he’d said, “Just call me Ryan. Shall I call you Mick?”
Anderson’s smile broadened, lifting his spirits as he recalled his answer. ‘No, call me Michael.’
Ryan never did address him by his first name.
Anderson retrieved the book from the coffee table in the conservatory. He relished the idea of reading for a couple of hours with nothing to disturb him but chirping birds and the lazy buzz of fat bumblebees. He strode through the house and returned outside with the book tucked under his arm.
The chair’s legs juddered as he dragged it back, preparing to sit. The desktop magnifying glass and book set down, he sat and shuffled himself into position, arranging the magnifier to straddle the page he’d bookmarked the night before.
After spreading jam on a piece of toast, he poured himself a coffee. A final adjustment to the layout of the book, and he lifted his cup and sipped before taking a bite, savouring the taste. He leant forwards and peered through the convex glass.
With no clear recollection of what he’d already read, beyond a fuzzy memory, Anderson flicked through the book and realised he’d only completed two pages. Beginning again, he skipped through the author introduction until he reached the section’s last page. His eyes locked momentarily on her justification for releasing the book.
“I was with Dr Ryan in his last hours and he’d been remarkably lucid. Although I was only a secretary, he’d treated me like a confidante for much of the time I worked for him. He told me of his great interest in the supernatural, and how he’d hoped to one day use his notes to write a book, something he never got around to doing. He had no children. His wife had died some years before. I’m not sure why, but he decided to bequeath me his personal notes and files. I believe his hope was that I’d find a way to publish them.” Stella concluded with the legend, ‘Patients’ names have been changed to protect their identitie
s.’
Will I recognise any of them? How long ago did Ryan and I part company? Anderson sat back in his chair and squinted at the walls of the house made brilliant by the sun, as if caught in a spell. His mind rolled back through the many milestones carved from joy and pain. Thirty-five years. His life as it was then danced before him. He smiled wistfully. Finally, he blinked and turned away.
He resumed reading.
When I was a young doctor working in Ireland in the late sixties, I met a girl who would change the course of my life. She was little more than fifteen. I had attended her following a report from her aunt that she was sick. Her family doctor could not be summoned. I was his stand-in. From the moment she told me, “Doctor David’s not coming,” and then whispered, word for word, the contents of a note later found with David’s body, I knew she was something special. How had she known? I’d already begun to develop an interest in the paranormal, and here I was in the presence of a child who, without doubt, had been blessed with powers of clairvoyance. I wanted to study her further, an opportunity that was to be denied, but she triggered an interest that became a lifetime obsession. If I’d never met her, would I have become a child psychiatrist? Would I have tried alternative treatments where conventional methods had failed? If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have never dreamed of it. And I certainly wouldn’t have become involved with some of the most interesting events imaginable.
Fully engrossed, and with Ryan’s voice in his head like he’d last heard it yesterday, Anderson didn’t notice the shadow encroaching on his peripheral vision. Instead, a strange sensation drew his focus. Numbed pain. Dull and insistent, at the soft corner of his left eyelid. What the? He cuffed himself as he swatted the thing away. Some kind of insect.
Anderson drew a finger across the affected area; a bump was already forming. Leave it alone, or it’ll start to itch. If it did, he’d call in at the chemist and buy some antihistamines. Damned mosquitoes. He’d never been bitten there before. He swivelled his eyeballs left. The swelling, a skin-coloured blur, irritated him like a smear on a pair of reading glasses. Damn. He pushed back in his chair and as he stood, he glanced through the magnifier at the page beneath. What the hell? Peering closer, against the background of a two-line break – between scenes, apparently dead, lay the biggest and blackest mosquito he’d ever seen. The magnified image held him fascinated.
