The Night of the Mosquito

by Max China

  ‘You don’t know?’ Wolfe said, ‘Fuck me; this game just gets better and better. She came to join you for dinner.’

  ‘Eleanor?’ he croaked.

  ‘This is just too sweet.’ Wolfe laughed. ‘Blind date, was it? It must have been. You are one ugly fuck.’

  ‘A mosquito bit my eye,’ Anderson groaned. ‘I need help. It’s infected me with something.’

  ‘A mosquito did that?’ Wolfe leaned closer, to examine the swollen, blackening flesh. ‘You got some kind of blood poisoning. Tell you what you need for that: a leech. A nice, big, friendly bloodsucker, but you’re out of luck on all counts.’

  ‘Where’s Eleanor?’ Anderson said weakly.

  ‘She’s fine – just waiting on the drive where I left her.’

  ‘You and your friend had better not hurt her,’ Anderson said, raising his voice.

  Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. ‘What friend?’

  The tone of his assailant’s voice told Anderson he was unaware of the third presence in the bushes. He rolled onto his back and stared into Wolfe’s face.

  The man in the black robe silently bent down, and picked up a pine cone. He threw it in a high arc. It crashed into the bushes twenty feet away.

  Wolfe wheeled around in the direction of the noise. ‘Who else lives here?’ he demanded.

  Anderson squinted to where he’d seen the figure by the tree trunk. Gone. ‘No one else.’

  Wolfe whirled through three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘Come out. Show yourself. It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,’ he said, almost softly.

  Greeted with silence, Wolfe’s head tilted, listening intently. He detected movement and fired without warning. The shot smashed through leaves, tainting the air with the smell of vapourised sap and cordite. ‘You should’ve come out while you had the chance,’ Wolfe growled. ‘Because now, I’m going to kill you on sight.’

  With the shotgun in one hand, he reached down, grabbed Anderson by the ankle, and dragged him through the vegetation, heading for the front of the house.

  Chapter 47

  Priestley police station. 8:45 p.m.

  In the gloom within his office, Tom Emerson checked his watch, and standing up, moved away from the desk. Dusk seemed earlier and darker than usual. The murmur of voices coming from outside grew louder. People seeking the symbolic sanctuary the station offered had built up steadily as night had begun to fall, and with it, an increase in riots and looting. Emerson walked to the window and parted two vertical slats of the closed blinds. The line of cars that jammed Kings Head Lane remained as they had since the power failed, their occupants having long abandoned them in favour of walking. Leaning close, he looked both ways, catching the eye of an old man before retracting his fingers.

  ‘Look at you, skulking in there while the streets aren’t safe,’ the man yelled. ‘Where were you when they kicked in the shop windows down the road?’

  Emerson returned to his desk, and about to sit down, jumped when someone banged on the window.

  ‘Get out here, now!’ a woman howled.

  Emerson had wanted to keep his door closed all day, shut out the world and all its problems. What a way to start your first week, Tom, he said to himself.

  Sergeant Adams appeared in the doorway. Emerson hadn’t heard him approach. ‘There are more and more people arriving outside, sir. Did you ever see that film Assault on Precinct 13?’

  ‘Are you comparing our situation to a Hollywood movie?’

  Adams shook his head. ‘No, sir. I suppose I was trying to say it could be worse. We’ve heard the troublemakers have converged in the shopping areas. That lot out there seem to be seeking sanctuary from the violence. Look at them. They’re scared. They’ve come here for protection, to feel safe.’

  ‘I don’t know what we can do about homes and businesses being ransacked. I’ll go out and talk to them in a minute, but what can I tell them?’ Emerson said, and slumped in his seat. ‘If the authorities don’t get the lights back on, and we don’t get operational again tonight, this has the potential to escalate into the worst trouble we’ve ever known. Shit. We don’t have enough personnel to do anything effective. If we try stopping the rioters, they’ll string us up. We have no choice other than to sit tight and see how it plays out.’

  ‘Seeing as you put it like that, sir, let’s hope the ringleaders from rent-a-mob in the town centre don’t get bored and decide to vent their fury on the station.’

  The two men stared at each other, the possible consequences reflected in the grim looks on their faces. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Adams turned towards the doorway.

  Williams strode into Emerson’s office. ‘It’s anarchy out there,’ he said. ‘I hear the trouble has spread to every street containing shops. Stealing food, I can understand, but televisions and computers? People are going to get killed.’

  Emerson removed the end of a chewed red biro from his mouth. ‘People have already been killed. We’ve had a report from St Michael’s in Churchend. A man and a woman were found dead in the bell tower, and another woman’s body was discovered by the roadside, not a mile away. All three victims drained of blood, apparently.’

  ‘What?’ Williams’ mouth hung open.

  ‘The people who reported it said it looked like they’d been attacked by a wild animal. Isn’t that right, Adams?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Obviously none of us have seen the bodies for ourselves yet. All I can say is, if it is the killer, he’s got to be a fucking maniac.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Williams said. ‘How did we hear all this?’

  ‘The mute,’ Adams replied. ‘Do you remember him?’

  ‘I don’t know any mute,’ Williams said.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, you bloody heathen, because you’ve never been to a church in your life,’ Emerson said, fiddling with his pen. ‘Timothy, someone or other. Used to help the old priest at St Michael’s doing odd jobs when he was alive, in return for a place to doss down. He still lives rough there. Hasn’t spoken since he witnessed his sister run over by a train. It happened down by the level crossing at Churchend when he was five years old. The two of them were runaway orphans. It’s a long story.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Father Raymond, that was his name. He died, and the authorities condemned the building not long after. Anyway, it was Timothy who raised the alarm. He dropped a note into a neighbour’s cottage and then ran off in a terrible state.’ Emerson paused, and laid the biro down on his desk. ‘They, of course, went to investigate, then came down here to report it. Strange, but they said Timothy was dressed in a priest’s gown.’

  ‘Is he all the ticket?’ Williams said. ‘I suppose he could have dressed up as a clergyman to give them last rites?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Emerson said, ‘the only thing not right about him, is his refusal to speak.’

  ‘Did he see Wolfe do it?’

  ‘Not sure. The victims were the eccentric couple that lived in Bell House. Oddly enough, they were bell-ringers. David Hall and his wife cycled down about an hour ago. They looked dreadful, said both had had chunks bitten out of them.’

  ‘So we think Wolfe’s up there somewhere.’

  ‘Could be.’

  Williams shook his head slowly. ‘Do we know if anyone else . . . ?’

  ‘No, we don’t. It’s almost ten miles away, and we don’t have the means to get up there. Too far to walk, and if we send a Bobby on a bike, he’d be in danger of being mugged for it.’

  ‘Well, the Halls made it here all right.’

  ‘And our Bobby might not. I’m in charge here and I’m not chancing it.

  ‘What happened to the guards?’ Williams asked.

  ‘Styles and company? They’re allegedly looking for him.’

  ‘Do they know about this development?’

  ‘How could they? They’re long gone.’

  ‘The word’s got about like wildfire around here, but if Wolfe is on the loose in Churchend, don’t we think someone should at least warn the residents they
should be on guard, for Christ’s sake?’ Williams gestured to the megaphone resting by Emerson’s seat. ‘Can I have that, sir?’

  ‘They won’t be able to hear you from here,’ the inspector said, his tone dry. He leaned over and picked the instrument up, thumping it down onto the desk. ‘All you’ll do is cause more mayhem.’

  ‘I can get up there,’ Williams said. ‘The professor has another motorbike.’

  ‘Now you’ve mentioned him, where the hell is he?’

  ‘I told you earlier on. He said had to go out, but he’d come down here to the station when he returned.’

  ‘Christ,’ Emerson said. ‘That was ages ago. We’re going to need his help before the night is out.’

  ‘Sir,’ Williams said, ‘do I have your permission or not?’

  ‘I can’t spare you. Things are getting worse out there.’

  ‘There’s too few of us to make an impact if things do go tits up. We’re not the Seven Samurai.’

  ‘There’s only six of us,’ Emerson said, the sarcasm in his tone unmistakable.

  ‘It’s irrelevant; just a figure of speech. All I’m saying is if it goes pear-shaped, there’s nothing we can do. So whether there’s five, six or bloody seven of us, a man down for an hour won’t hurt. Those people are isolated up there, they have a psychopathic killer in their midst, and he’s already picked off three of them that we know of. Don’t you think we owe it to them, if we can, to warn them?’

  ‘You won’t need this,’ Emerson said, and put the loudhailer back onto the floor. ‘Just call at each house. There’s only half a dozen of them. Adams will give you the addresses and locations. Whether you think you can make a difference or not, I want you back in an hour, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Williams said. ‘Shall I tell the crowd you’ll be out in a while?’

  ‘Tell them someone will be out in a few minutes.’ Emerson waved him off dismissively and glanced at his watch. ‘No, on second thoughts, go out the back way.’

  ‘Sir, they were all right with me coming through just now; besides, they’ll see me when I go out of the gates.’

  ‘You’re downhill from the entrance. I doubt they can see over the hedge. I just don’t want them asking questions.’ Emerson picked up the loudhailer. ‘All right, just in case, I’ll go outside now. Give you a chance to slip away while I’m talking. You’ll have to go down the hill and round the other way to get to the professor’s.’

  Adams unlocked the rear access door to the car park and service yard, and opened it. ‘I’ve marked up a map with the locations of the properties,’ Adams said, unfolding it. ‘Just so you don’t miss any. You know your way?’

  Williams took the map and examined it briefly before folding it to fit in his pocket. ‘Thanks, Mike. I’ve not been there for a while, but I don’t think I’ll have any trouble finding the houses with this.’ He stepped outside. The sky shimmered, animating the windscreens of parked cars with a show of reflected green and pinkish light.

  ‘Good luck, John,’ Adams said, and closed the door behind him. Williams walked to the corner of the building and listened. The constant drone from the crowd rose in volume. Individual voices shouted, ‘Someone’s coming out!’

  ‘Hallelujah.’

  ‘About fucking time.’

  Tom Emerson’s metallic voice began his address. ‘Good evening. For those of you who weren’t here when I introduced myself earlier, I’m Inspector Tom Emerson and I’m in charge of this station.’ He cleared his throat. ‘First of all, I’d like to reassure everyone that the authorities are working hard to get the power back on, even as we speak. I understand how hard it is not knowing what’s going on. As you know, communications are down and that’s hampering all of us, but we’re working closely with our colleagues at all the other police stations throughout the city,’ he lied, ‘to minimise disruption and enforce law and order. Sadly, as always, rent-a-mob turns up determined to cause as much havoc as possible. This situation is unprecedented. We’ve never faced a total meltdown in communications and power before. But we’re going to pull through. To do that, we need the help of good citizens, not just here, but everywhere.’

  ‘What about the escaped killer?’ a man yelled. A chorus of other voices joined in. ‘What are you doing about keeping us safe?’ ‘How do we call you lot if we can’t use our phones?’

  Emerson patted the air with his left hand. ‘I know rumours have been circulating about an escaped killer.’ The crowd hushed. ‘We don’t believe he’s in the city. Reports suggest he’s been active in an isolated community about ten miles from here. We don’t think he’s going to risk coming to town.’

  ‘But isn’t he a madman?’ a woman cried.

  ‘Yes, though he isn’t stupid. He’s extremely tall, almost seven feet; he knows he’ll stand out, even in a crowd. Hard as it is, we have to try keeping our community intact. We can’t control the rioters without a coordinated effort by the police, and we can’t do that until communications and electricity are restored. At some point, if we have to, we’ll get a message out to the army, call them in. In the meanwhile, we need to keep an eye on our kids, keep them off the streets. You should go home, stay safe indoors.’

  ‘How many officers have you got in there?’ a man shouted.

  ‘This station has never been at full capacity, and today is no exception.’

  ‘I’ve been around these parts all day and I’ve not counted more than six of you.’

  ‘We’ve got more than that.’ Emerson lied.

  Williams sauntered away from the corner, moving in the opposite direction to the crowd, heading for the professor’s house.

  Chapter 48

  Professor Young’s house. 9:10 p.m.

  Williams knocked on Professor Young’s door, and getting no answer, strode down the side of the house towards the back gate, guessing he’d have replaced the spare keys. He searched for a likely candidate to match the scraping sound against concrete he’d heard when the old boy had retrieved them earlier. Nothing – apart from two terra-cotta flower pots. He dragged one back. Bingo. The professor wouldn’t object to him borrowing the motorbike on police business. He looked around before returning to the front of the house to unlock the garage door handle, and turning it, he lifted the metal door as quietly as possible. A rectangular shaft of moonlight cut a wedge into the gloom as Williams’ long-legged shadow stretched over it and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  He stepped inside, stopping to squeeze his eyes shut. When he reopened them, the shape of two vehicles had become visible. The professor had kept the car covered with a dustsheet, but he’d left the Triumph uncovered when he’d taken the Norton. Williams’ eyes were drawn to the faint reflections, which outlined the polished chrome surfaces, lending them a ghostly green tinge, as if irradiated. He stretched out his hand, and inching forward, felt for the workbench. His knuckles bumping against it, he ran his fingers along the wall to where the professor had hung his keys.

  Three hooks. Two lots of keys. One set would be for the car. He grabbed both sets and fumbled, turning the leather fobs towards the open door of the garage. The light caught shiny steel letters and revealed the car maker’s name. Riley. Williams visualised his grandfather sitting proudly at the wheel of the one he’d owned. He smiled, hardly needing to check the other logo, but did anyway. It read Triumph.

  Satisfied he had the correct key, he backtracked and replaced the car keys. Petrol. Williams could smell it. The professor had obviously topped up the Norton’s tank before taking it. Locating where the fuel had been stored in the dark was easier than he’d imagined; he simply followed his nose. Coming across the five-gallon jerrycan, he discovered a funnel right next to it. He’d check the fuel level outside. Wheeling the bike out, he rested it on its kickstand and turned the ignition key. The indicator on the gauge swung to show the tank was full. He closed and re-secured the door before taking the map from his top pocket.

  Adams had marked the locations of the properties with an X
and scribbled the house names alongside. The first address was Hilltop Cottage. Williams folded the sheet and tucked it back inside his jacket. Rather than use the kick-start, he decided to bump the engine; he wanted to be rolling before alerting the neighbours. He reached under the tank, turned the petcock on and put the bike in second gear. Pulling back the clutch, he began to push the machine, and gaining momentum on the hill, he hopped his left foot onto the footrest and swung the other leg over the seat. He keyed the ignition and released the clutch. The engine spluttered before catching. Williams revved, and accelerating with a roar, rode the bike out of the cul-de-sac at speed.

  The Bonneville was more responsive than he’d anticipated. Noisier, and with harder vibrations than Williams was used to, he settled down to enjoy the ride. The route out of the professor’s road enabled him to cut through the backstreets and thus avoid those roads congested with broken-down vehicles. He’d heard the looters were largely confined to the shopping centre, though some were breaking into vehicles and houses looking for easy spoils. Transportation thieves had become commonplace.

  Cars jammed the approach to the bridge at Clifton. At the scene of the prison bus crash, at least twenty vehicles had ploughed into one another in both directions. The pile-up and sudden loss of power had left the traffic dormant, haphazard and misaligned in a crazy herringbone arrangement on either side. Williams decelerated to a slow walking pace. Feet down, he steered left and right, picking his way past the point where the bus had gone over the edge. He shook his head in disbelief as he continued to weave in and out along the narrow corridor in the centre of the road.

  Williams was amazed that some people had remained with their cars. He assumed that they were holding on in the hope that help would come soon, or perhaps they lived too far away to get out and walk. Through the open doors of a Transit van, he saw a couple vigorously enjoying intercourse. A small group huddled together nearby, gazing out over the gorge and smoking. They looked up at the sound of Williams’ approach.