by Max China
‘Surely there’s a fail-safe system in place to prevent—’
‘If there’s a power failure, batteries cover the system until the generators kick in. In the event of everything failing, we revert to Victorian times. Maintenance might have been able to fix the generator problem, but when they came inside to check it out . . .’ He shook his head. ‘We now have a situation where eight violent and unstable inmates are effectively controlling the whole place, armed with our batons, electrical tools and anything else they can make a weapon out of. Murderers, rapists and torturers. We are truly in the shit.’
‘But where are the remaining guards?’ Rubenstein said.
‘Locked in the inmates’ cells. I was in Control, which is on a separate locking suite. The inmates couldn’t get to me. For now, I think our best bet is to stay calm, and hope the power comes back soon.’ He took his radio from its holster, and pushed the controls. ‘Still not working. What time did you say this other inmate is expected?’
Rubenstein glanced at his watch. ‘They should have been here forty minutes ago.’
‘Well, with an extra ten men, we might have a chance to turn the tables.’
‘Whatever we do, we have to keep it in-house,’ Rubenstein said gravely. ‘If we seek outside intervention, our cover will be blown and our license to operate revoked. The government will throw us to the wolves, close us down.’
‘That’s what should happen,’ Edwards said. ‘You don’t really think you can cure these people?’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Rubenstein said. ‘We’re here to work on how to prevent others suffering the same way.’
‘With respect, Dr Rubenstein, I’ve worked in places like this for years. No two of these patients, or whatever you want to call them, are the same. Their lives are chaos. They attract it, embrace it, and if it doesn’t seek them, they look for it. There’s no cure. No smart drug you can manufacture to put things right—’
A woman’s agonised scream pierced the air, followed by maniacal laughter.
‘I think we should shut the door,’ Rubenstein said.
The three men stared at one another as each descended further into hell.
‘Leave it for a moment,’ Edwards said. ‘I need to hear what’s going on. Besides, I’ll be going back through it at any minute.’
Kotlas and Rubenstein knelt by Bales’ body. Rubenstein pointed out the ratio of his narrow face to its height. ‘The levels of aggression normally associated with a man like Bales are usually accompanied by a much wider face. It was just one of the mould-breaking anomalies I encountered when I first met him. From his point of view, it was a wonderful disguise, but most unfortunate for his victims—’
‘I can’t just sit by and listen to that screaming,’ Edwards suddenly announced, standing up.
‘You can’t do anything. You said earlier—’
‘Neither can I do nothing, Rubenstein. You two stay put. Man the phone in case the power comes back on.’
‘What are you going to do?’ said Kotlas.
‘Break a few heads. If I’m lucky, I’ve got a fighting chance.’
‘And if you’re not?’
‘You’ll hear me screaming.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Kotlas said.
Edwards measured him. ‘You’ll get in the way. Your job is to fix heads, not break ‘em.’
The young psychiatrist stared defiantly. ‘I might be able to talk to them.’
Rubenstein laughed. ‘Stay here; you’ll live longer.’
‘You got a spare truncheon, Edwards?’ Kotlas said.
Edwards approached the door. ‘For your own good, you’d best stick with Rubenstein’s advice.’ He checked the corridor in both directions and then stepped out. ‘Lock it,’ he said over his shoulder, and marched south towards the stairs.
Chapter 12
Hilltop Cottage. 9:27 a.m.
Michael Anderson peered through the window. The rain had eased. He ventured outside. The sky had taken on an odd silvery gleam, and he guessed it was the sun trying to burn its way back through, the high moisture content creating the strange glow. Taking his car key from his pocket, he pointed it at the Land Rover and pressed the unlock fob. Nothing. Frowning, he tried again. He withdrew the key from within its electronic housing and opened the door manually. Once inside, he attempted to start the engine. Nothing. Frustrated, he smacked the steering wheel with both hands. Shit. No car. No phone. What should I do?
He was in two minds. Is it worth the effort of cycling to the nearest town for something so insignificant? Why do you always make a big thing out of something, when there’s no need? Okay, calm it. He breathed long and hard, blowing out, counting. Leaning forward in his seat, he peered into the rearview mirror, examining his swollen eyelid. The bite hadn’t responded to the lotion, and now he could see, quite clearly, the hole the insect had drilled precisely at the centre of the swelling.
Think, Michael, think. What’s good for mosquito bites? He racked his brain. Vinegar? No, that’s for wasps. Antihistamines were all he could think of. Hang on. He remembered his Nytol tablets. Didn’t they have something like that in them? If the irritation became too bad, he’d take them later. At least he’d be able to sleep.
Removing his key from the ignition, he opened the door and clambered down from the driver’s seat.
Anderson pumped air into both semi-flat tyres of his bicycle, and then rode down to the unmanned railway crossing. Dismounting, he waited, looking at his watch. The barrier lights were off. Were they always off? He couldn’t think. The train that usually rattled past at 9:37 a.m. didn’t show. He got back on his mountain bike and cycled home, deep in thought.
Whatever had caused the failure wasn’t limited to his house.
Laying the bike down outside, he collected the things he’d left on the table before the rain and carried them inside. He placed the tray in the sink, and muttering to himself, dried the chromium that surrounded the magnifier, polished the lens, and then checked his phone.
Still nothing.
He’d reset the switches on the fuse board before he went out, ready for the power coming back on. It was quite safe, he convinced himself. If there were a problem with the circuitry, it would trip out. His efforts to trace the source of the odour that had permeated every room had proved impossible. It’s going to be all right, he told himself. Relax. Anderson picked up his book, tucked it under his arm, and wandering into the conservatory, immersed himself in Ryan’s words once more.
What fascinated me, over and above Vera’s clairvoyance, was what I’d gleaned from her medical notes. Born on April 16, 1954, it was a Good Friday. I attach no particular significance to it, other than to note that according to folklore, children born on that day are considered unlucky. She was the thirteenth child. The last of seven to survive. The six previous children had died, either at birth, or a short time afterwards. A sickly baby, she’d been baptized on Easter Sunday, a measure taken by her parents that perhaps led the fates to smile on her.
At age thirteen, she’d almost succumbed to a fever. The family doctor had recorded extremely high temperatures. Her mother had refused hospital treatment, under the notion that, if it were God’s will, she would survive. The girl pulled through. But she was never the same again, developing what David had assumed was a psychosomatic illness. However, it was at that time her clairvoyant episodes began. Her family tragically perished in a fire. The girl had left the house earlier in the night. Suspicions were raised. Now an orphan, her aunt took her in. The episodes continued. The predictions she made came true. Her aunt began to fear her.
Deep in thought, Anderson fingered the lump on his eyelid. He’d started to put things together. Ryan had already said she changed the course of his life. How many others? Intrigued, he checked his watch and read on.
Her aunt thwarted my plans to study her, handing her over to the Catholic Church, who had her whisked off to Rome. They’d seen something in her they wanted for themselves.
; Part of me knew I was destined to see her again. She’d told me so, and unlikely as it might seem, when we crossed paths a few years later, in Brighton, it only served to confirm my earlier thoughts. She was the real McCoy.
Anderson checked the light switch, flipped it on and off. Still no electricity. Outside, the sky had turned dull. He could have done with the power coming back. For the past hour, distant bells had rung out a continuous clanging loop of sound. The pattern permeated his consciousness. The church at St Michael’s. The place had been closed for years, the bell tower crumbling. Who would risk their lives to ring them? He shrugged and continued to read. Darkness gathered outside; he screwed his eyes tight, trying to focus. There’s going to be another storm. The pages. Something’s wrong. Cream, yellow, green, shades of blue. You’re hallucinating, old boy. He glanced up at the dark skies. Phantasms of green shimmering light rippled in the vastness as if unseen hands flicked gigantic silken sheets, teasing the folds and creases from them. Northern Lights? During the day, and this far south?
‘Christ,’ he said aloud. ‘The bells. Someone’s ringing out a warning.’
Chapter 13
Copse Hall. 9:36 a.m.
Kotlas paced up and down the room. ‘How long has Edwards been gone?’
Rubenstein glanced at his watch. ‘I’d say about seven minutes.’
‘You know,’ Kotlas said as he approached the door, ‘I shouldn’t have let him go on his own.’
‘Keep the door shut. He knows what he’s doing. You don’t. You’re acting like a fool—’’
‘What kind of men are we?’ Kotlas said, passion rising in his voice. ‘Prepared to sit and do nothing, while one man risks all?’
‘We’re psychiatrists, not guards.’ Rubenstein realised the younger man had made up his mind, but still tried to dissuade him. He shrugged, spreading his arms wide. ‘What can we do? Besides, if Fisher has Fleur at his mercy, I fear it’s already too late to help her.’
Kotlas picked up the telephone and listened. ‘Still not working.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘If there’s the slightest chance, it has to be taken. I’m going after Edwards.’ Turning the snib, he unlocked the door, checking left and right before stepping out.
‘Good luck,’ Rubenstein said.
Kotlas, hearing the bolt ram home, glanced behind him. Through the slats inside the glass panel, already closing to break visual contact, he saw the older man watching, an expression of deep concern on his face. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, and then dashed off in the direction the guard had taken.
Minutes. Only minutes separated him and Edwards. A demented howl in the distance unnerved him. He looked out of the quadrangle windows to his right, and down through the atrium covering the ground floor, but could see no sign of movement.
At the end of the long corridor, he turned right. The lifts wouldn’t be working. A fire exit sign hung over the stair doors. Exit, but only if you have a key, he thought. Shit. With the power out, the fingerprint sensor wouldn’t work. He slammed his fist against the toughened glass panel in frustration. Spinning around, he back-heeled it for good measure.
‘Looks like you’re on your own after all, Edwards,’ he said grimly. Faint sounds reached him, coming up the stairwell from below. Pressing an ear to the glass, he screwed his face in concentration. Why had no other inmates come upstairs? Of course. They didn’t have keys. But the man lying on Rubenstein’s office floor had one. To have accessed the floor above, he had to have.
I need those keys.
Sprinting back the way he’d come, he skidded around the corner and halted. What was that? Kotlas backtracked a couple of paces and peeked around it. The staircase door had opened.
He froze. Adrenaline surged. Breath held. He was about to run for the sanctuary of Rubenstein’s office, when Edwards came into view.
‘Edwards, thank God it’s you.’ Relief washed over him. ‘What happened? Did you change your mind?’
‘No,’ the guard said. ‘I’d taken off my stab vest and left it in the stairwell. I thought, this is shit or bust. Without it, I’ve got greater mobility, but once I’d gone into the airlock between the doors down there, I saw Fisher brandishing a bloody great screwdriver. When I weighed it all up, I decided I’d need the vest. That’s when I heard banging. I knew all the inmates were confined to the ground floor, so I came back up. I thought it might be you.’
Noting the officer’s grim expression, the young psychiatrist said, ‘It’s bad, isn’t it? Or you’d have gone in.’
‘It’s a suicide mission,’ Edwards said, his voice matter-of-fact.
‘Well, I’ve come to join you. Is there a weapon I can use?’
‘No, but,’ he began to undo the straps securing the stab vest, ‘you can have this.’
‘Keep it,’ Kotlas said. ‘I won’t wear it. I’m a lot smaller; it’ll slow me down far more than it will you.’
Edwards scowled. ‘You’re either brave or stupid.’ He held the stair door open. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’ He locked it after Kotlas entered the lobby. ‘Here, take these.’
The psychiatrist looked at the cuffs offered.
‘Go on, take them,’ the guard urged. ‘They’re better than nothing.’
‘You want me to cuff one of them?’
‘If you get the chance, but use your imagination. Swing them around your head; hit ‘em, cuff ‘em, whatever you can do. They’re picking off the staff one by one. Not a pretty sight, and poor Fleur. She’s covered in bite marks and bruises, so it looks like she’s been repeatedly raped. I don’t know if she’s in shock, doped or even dead. Fisher, the Norfolk Cannibal, won’t leave her alone. Softening her up, working himself into a frenzy.’
‘What is it with all these cannibal killers lately?’ Kotlas said.
‘They’ve always been around, but now it seems to have become fashionable.’
‘Are you sure we’re the only ones free?’
‘Like I said earlier, only the gatehouse is still manned. The problem is, without communication, Barker hasn’t a clue what’s going on, but one thing’s for sure. He won’t come out of there. Everyone else must be in the basement. That sick bastard Brody is down there with them. I think he has two of the other inmates with him. Heaven help those poor bastards they’ve taken hostage. At least three are already dead in the recreation area alone. We need an edge, Kotlas, or we’re all fucked.’
‘Brody?’
‘You not heard about him?’
Kotlas shook his head. ‘No. I’ve never been here before, but I had a general chat with Rubenstein. I hear they’re all kept isolated from each other.’
‘Apart from two or three of them,’ Edwards said. ‘Policy. Something to do with Rubenstein’s work as much as health and safety.’
The young psychiatrist looked thoughtful. He narrowed his eyes, the glimmer of an idea shining. ‘This is the first time they’ve all been out together?’
Edwards caught on to the other man’s expression. ‘You got something in mind?’
‘Divide and rule,’ he said. ‘Now, quickly, tell me what you know about the inmates controlling the recreation area.’
‘I told you about Fisher—’
‘I don’t need to know what they are. Mum and dad alive? Brothers, sisters? Signs of remorse? Religion?’
‘Christ, I don’t know all that. I know Fisher was fostered, brought up in shocking conditions, kept prisoner under the stairs and subjected to sexual abuse. Apparently, the woman liked to watch while her husband tortured him.’ Edwards’ face and voice conveyed his disgust. ‘When Fisher was fifteen, he snapped in the middle of a session and killed the man. Then he tied up the woman, spread-eagled like a starfish, as he put it, and then spent the next couple of days giving her a dose of her own medicine. He force-fed her with the husband’s body parts while doing all kinds of things you don’t want to know about. The pathology report said they found his semen in every orifice of her body—’
‘Enough about him,’ Kotlas snapped. ‘Has he mixed with any
of the others?’
‘Only Vanner,’ Edwards said. ‘He was kidnapped as a child along with three others. Kept for months; he was the only survivor. Of the four, he was the only one who sensed that if he were to survive, he needed to do more than just cooperate. It worked. Trouble was, when he was twelve – he caught four little boys—’
Kotlas spat on the floor. ‘I take it his parents disowned him?’
Edwards, surprised at the doctor’s reaction, said, ‘Only the father did. The mother stayed loyal to him.’
‘Does she visit?’
‘No, he barred her a couple of years ago. Every month she puts in a request and he refuses to see her.’
The wrinkles on Kotlas’ forehead deepened. ‘Any idea why?’
‘He heard that Fisher fantasised about starfishing her.’
‘Really? Who told him that?’
Edwards shrugged. ‘I think it was Rubenstein.’
Kotlas frowned. No time to think about the reason now. ‘This is what I propose. We go in quietly; let me do the talking. If my plan works, we neutralize the ones upstairs and then take the others as they come to investigate.’
‘You’ve been watching too many movies, Kotlas. We don’t have a prayer of that working.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ the young psychiatrist said. ‘I didn’t tell you, but if need be, I can handle myself.’
The guard grabbed his bicep and squeezed, surprised at the firmness of the muscle. ‘You’ll need more than experience of pumping iron to deal with those animals. You’re like a poodle going in with a pitbull. That’s what catches people off-guard: the craziness. Murderers like them don’t think twice about going for the kill. By the time you’ve realized that, you’re dead.’
