Alchemist

by Peter James

  She fumbled with the unfamiliar controls, switched on the wipers and cleared the smeared mist from the screen, braked as she bore down on the tail lights of a car in front, checked it wasn’t police, then accelerated past it. The speedometer slid past the 85 mark. She switched on the wipers again, and as they completed their first arc, her heart banged inside her chest and she let out a small cry of shock.

  A hideous horned face was staring in through the windscreen, solid, three dimensional, like a hologram. It was part human skull, part emaciated goat.

  She jammed her foot on the brake and slewed to a halt. There was an angry blaring behind her, then a car flashed past. She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second and when she reopened them the face was gone.

  She gulped, shaking uncontrollably. ‘Jesus!’ The wipers made a second arc, then a third. It was cold suddenly, bitterly cold. A slick of fear slid down her spine. It felt as if there was something in the car with her, an unseen presence on the rear seat. She glanced fleetingly in the mirror but could see nothing.

  She thought back to Dr Crowe seated opposite her across his desk. That venomous smile. For some inexplicable reason the face she had just seen – or imagined – made her picture him. She hesitated, afraid to look behind her for a moment, then steeled herself and turned her head.

  Nothing.

  She drove off again, accelerating as hard as she could. The speedometer climbed; she drove over the brow of a hill then down a long straight. 80. 85. 90. A shadow slid across her rear-view mirror and her scalp constricted in fear.

  She slowed her speed a little, looked in the mirror again, turned her head, but could see nothing.

  Lights flashed at her. A horn blared. The lights of an oncoming car; she had veered out into the middle of the road, she suddenly realized, and she tugged in panic on the steering wheel, swerving back to the left.

  Then she saw the mask-like face again in front of her. Pressed hard against the glass of the windscreen, the features squashed out, distorted like a crazy mirror in a funfair.

  ‘Go away!’ she shrieked, petrified, banging the wiper switch. The wipers made another arc; she switched them to maximum speed. But there was nothing there, no face, just the dark road ahead, and two red lights flashing in the far distance.

  She looked in the mirror once more. As she did so there was a tremendous bang in front of her face. Something dark, like a massive ball, exploded out of the steering wheel, striking her in the chest, flattening her back against her seat. She felt agonizing pain in her head, as though two daggers had been plunged into her ears.

  The ball deflated.

  Air bag, she realized. Jesus Christ, the air bag had inflated. For no reason.

  Two flashing red lights strobed across the windscreen. She saw a sign, a triangle with a picture of a train on it, saw it much too late. Stamped her foot on the brake, her mouth jamming open in a silent scream. Locked tyres scrubbed furiously across wet tarmac beneath her. The car slewed to the left, heading towards the large warning circle in the centre of the barrier arm. She saw yellow to the right through the trees; hundreds of yards of winking lights; packed carriages; commuters heading home.

  She thought of the black dress she had laid out on her bed that morning before setting off. Thought of the handsome radio presenter who would be ringing her doorbell in a few minutes’ time, as the car jolted crazily and the barrier exploded into matchsticks in front of her eyes.

  Going-to-make-it. Going-to-make-it. Going-to-make-it.

  She was gripping the steering wheel as helplessly as if it were the grab-handle of a roller coaster.

  Going to be all right.

  The car juddered violently, then halted. Her ears filled with a screaming howl. Lights were bearing down. Got to get out, get out! She scrabbled for the door handle. Couldn’t locate it; she still wasn’t familiar enough with the car. Her hand slid uselessly up and down. Found it, yanked it, bashed the door open with her elbow. Wind and rain lashed in. The light was getting brighter. A horn blared. A wall of thunder was hurtling down towards her.

  She tried to get out of the car, but her seat belt jerked her tighter into her seat. She fumbled for the buckle, felt the belt go slack; she pushed the door, threw herself out. Something grabbed her foot, jerked it sharply up and back, and with a scream of pain she fell flat on her face, her foot trapped inside the car by the strap of the belt. A demonic wind ripped at her face, her hair. A cacophony of horns blared right above her. Mouth open, whinnying in terror, she stared upwards, mesmerized like a rabbit by the glare of the oncoming lights.

  Somewhere nearby a voice was screaming: ‘Run! For God’s sake, run!’

  37

  Berkshire, England, Sunday 13 November, 1994

  Monty laid two beech logs on the open fire, kicked her slippers off and curled up on the sofa, balancing her plate on her thigh. It was seven o’clock and she was looking forward to the luxury of some television followed by an early night. She pressed the channel selector on the remote control and the title sequence of an Equinox programme on genetics appeared on the screen. Keeping a watchful eye on it, she bit a slice of warm buttered toast and dug her fork into the scrambled eggs she had made for supper.

  She was feeling fine now, if a little tired, and was anxious to get back to work tomorrow, in spite of the doctor’s advice that she should take a week off; all the rawness had gone from her throat and lungs, and her eyes were no longer smarting. The hospital had discharged her on Saturday morning and her father had driven her home. She had rung him a few minutes ago to remind him that he had to pick her up in the morning, as her car was still in the Bendix parking lot.

  Jake Seals’ funeral was on Wednesday but the request was for family only and she had arranged for flowers to be sent. Monty was a little surprised by how quickly the coroner had released the body. Presumably he had no reason for holding on to it, but something disturbed her about that, as if any chance of finding out further evidence would disappear with his cremation.

  Evidence of what?

  She had half expected the American to visit her again in hospital and had been a little disappointed when he had not. But she remembered that he had suggested lunch this week and she looked forward to that, wanted to pry further behind the shutters, to find out what exactly he was insinuating, and what he knew. Was it something about the company? Or something about Maternox?

  That made her think, with a sudden chill, about her friend Anna Sterling. Anna and Mark had come by this morning, on their way to a lunch party, to make sure she was all right, and had brought a mass of edible provisions for her.

  The three women who had died in childbirth had died a month or so ago; she did a quick calculation backwards. That meant they had become pregnant in January or February. As they had resorted to Maternox, they must have been suffering from infertility for some time; she had heard a figure that the average length of time of taking Maternox before becoming pregnant was five months. She recalled the conversation she’d had with Anna about a year ago, when Anna had confessed that she was infertile.

  ‘The doctor wants to put me on a drug called Maternox.’

  Monty remembered those words clearly as she swallowed a mouthful of egg. Anna would have started taking the drug at around the same time.

  She was distracted from this thought by what sounded like a car outside. She looked at the window, listening hard, but could hear nothing now. It was dark out there and bitterly cold. One of the things she loved about living isolated in the country was the luxury of not having to draw the curtains, and through the reflections in the glass she could see the pinprick of the North star above the woods at the far end of her garden. There was a crackle and a sharp pop from the grate and a burning ember catapulted across the brick hearth. Crick raised a sleepy eye, while Watson, curled in a ball, slept on undisturbed.

  Monty glanced at the red bloom of the poinsettia which Anna Sterling had given her several years ago and which always flowered at this time of year. She wondered w
hether to warn her friend of the possible danger from Maternox, but at the same time she did not want to worry her. Three cases of Cyclops Syndrome. Three out of the hundreds of thousands – millions – of women who were helped to become pregnant by Maternox each year. Three cases – that was statistically so slight as to be meaningless. The press were trying to whip up a scare out of nothing. Typical. She would keep an eye on the situation, she decided, but she would say nothing to Anna unless she heard considerably more evidence against the drug.

  Putting her glass of Australian Chardonnay down, she continued eating. There was another burning pop, then another, and she shot a wary glance at the fireplace. The image of Jake’s smouldering, melting face came to mind and she felt a sudden bolt of alarm. Her eyes swung warily back to the window and the blackness beyond, and she was aware of her throat tightening. Nothing out there? Nothing to be afraid of.

  Calm down.

  She reached for the unread stack of weekend newspapers on the thick cream carpet beneath her, selecting the Weekend section of the day before’s Times.

  As she skimmed through it she saw to her surprise the genial face of Sir Neil Rorke beneath the small headline: MY PERFECT WEEKEND.

  Rorke was pictured wearing a battered Barbour coat and Wellington boots, holding the handles of a wheelbarrow; there was a broad grin on his face as if he did not have a care in the world. His perfect weekend, he declared, would be spent on his Scottish estate, walking with his wife and their dogs, listening to Mozart, drinking Glenlivet whiskey and Le Montrachet ’78 white Burgundy and Chateau Margaux ’37 claret, and eating Scotch salmon and rare beef. The things he would be most pleased to leave behind, he said, were his neckties and his correspondence. A warmth emanated from him, and he struck her as seeming quite out of place with the slickness of Bendix Schere and coldly arrogant people like Dr Vincent Crowe and his like.

  Suddenly something caught her eye and she started. Bright light streaked momentarily across the garden, then it was gone. Car headlights. Fear crackled her skin like static. She padded over to the window, pressing her face against the glass.

  Then her doorbell rang.

  For an instant Monty froze. She turned down the volume on the television and her heartbeat resonated in her ears. Her mouth was dry. She was not normally this jumpy, she admonished herself.

  She walked to the front door, then switched on the porch light and peered through the spyhole, gripping the safety chain, ready to ram it home. Through the distorted fish-eye image, she recognized immediately the balding middle-aged man in the shabby raincoat, and relief washed through her.

  She opened the door and cold air engulfed her. ‘Mr Wentworth? Good evening.’

  The newspaperman stood blinking at her apologetically through his square, rimless glasses. ‘Miss Bannerman, so sorry to disturb you.’ He wheezed a little as if he was out of breath. ‘I didn’t want to use the phone, too risky. Is it possible to have a quick word?’

  ‘Yes – come in,’ she said, still savouring her relief.

  ‘I won’t keep you; no one wants an unexpected visitor on a Sunday evening.’ He paused and studied the faded runner that lay on the threadbare hall carpet. ‘Persian. Every one tells a story; clever; so many legends. Metaphors.’

  Monty looked at him blankly. ‘Metaphors?’

  ‘The design. The trellis work round the edge – it’s the lattice through which souls pass from one dimension to another. You’d be surprised at the stories works of art like these tell.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked down at the rug, which she’d bought in a car boot sale years ago, surprised at his knowledge.

  He pointed. ‘Ah yes. Dark and light borders represent the succession of night and day.’ He nodded like an ancient sage.

  ‘It never occurred to me that it was symbolic.’

  ‘Yes, yes, the eight-petalled flower marking the centre of the universe, you see it? The eight petals are the main compass points. In the centre is the hole in the sky marking the gateway from earth to heaven.’ Then he smiled at himself. ‘Come on, shut up, Hubert Wentworth, this good lady doesn’t want to hear the ramblings of an old man.’

  ‘You don’t look that old,’ Monty said gently.

  ‘Fifty-nine is old enough.’ He nodded at his own remark. Then he asked after her, ‘Are you better? I heard you were in hospital. Bad business, that.’ He peeled off his coat at her gesture. Beneath he was wearing a crumpled suit and tie. Monty wondered if he had been to church.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She hung the coat on the Victorian stand, pointing him through into the living room. As she came into the room herself, Wentworth was standing in front of a painting of a Greek harbour at sunset.

  ‘Is this you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Ithaka, about five years ago.’

  ‘You should be an artist, you know, not a chemist.’

  She smiled wistfully. ‘You’re very kind.’ She sat down on the edge of the sofa, a little embarrassed by the sight of her supper tray on the floor and pointed to an armchair. ‘Please, sit down. May I get you a drink?’

  As before, he would only accept a glass of water, which she fetched from the kitchen. When she came back she thought he looked exhausted by the sheer effort of sitting. He put his glass down on the coffee table, but continued to hold on to it as if it were a lever he might need to pull in order to extricate himself from the chair.

  ‘Bad news,’ he said and nodded his head as if to underline the gravity. ‘Perhaps you heard? You saw yesterday’s paper? The Gazette?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not …’

  ‘I told you about our young reporter, Zandra Wollerton?’

  ‘Yes, I met her a couple of times – on Tuesday and on Thursday.’

  He looked across at her, surprised. ‘You met her this past Thursday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘No – in hospital –’ She was still wondering what the latest bad news was.

  ‘A lot of deaths all of a sudden, Miss Bannerman. Far too many,’ he said. ‘Our good friends Bendix Schere tried putting commercial pressure on my editor not to pursue this Maternox story – did Zandra tell you that?’

  ‘No – she didn’t. I – I’m afraid I was very tired the second time; we didn’t talk for long.’

  Crick stood up, walked over to Wentworth and rubbed himself along his ankle. The newspaperman leaned down and stroked him. ‘So Zandra Wollerton probably also didn’t tell you that this unfortunate technician, Mr Seals, had succeeded in obtaining the Maternox information that we’re interested in? Plus samples.’

  ‘No!’ Monty said, her mind racing along now.

  He nodded. ‘She was keen to go ahead and publish, but I told her she had to hold on, needed more evidence to make the story stand up. You can’t rush into print on supposition; you need facts.’ He looked at Monty and his expression darkened. ‘I take it you’ve not heard the news about Zandra Wollerton?’

  Monty shook her head and braced herself, knowing that whatever it was, it was serious.

  ‘A railway crossing. She drove straight across in front of a train. Tragic.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of futility. ‘Such a terrible waste.’

  Monty was speechless. She had not prepared herself for this.

  ‘She died on Thursday night. I thought you should know. It seems to have been an accident, just an ordinary terrible accident, but –’ Again he gestured with his hands. ‘Hurrying. Perhaps she thought she could beat the barrier. Who knows?’

  Monty felt as if a small bomb had exploded inside her. An image of the young reporter striding determinedly into the hospital room came back to haunt her.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said in barely a whisper. ‘I –’ Her voice tailed and she gave in to a feeling that reality was slipping away from her. She thought of tough, cynical Jake Seals suddenly peering around the pub like a frightened child, could hear the voice of the ambitious female reporter as she chased her story.

  She stared
at her painting of Ithaka, at the warm Sanderson fabric covering her furniture, at the dancing flames in the grate, at the blackness of the night beyond the window.

  ‘Another accident,’ Wentworth said, as if trying to reassure her, and himself.

  ‘Was it?’ she said. ‘How many deaths do there have to be before –’ She bit her tongue, her thoughts fragmenting.

  Wentworth drank some water, then cupped the glass in his hands as if he were drawing warmth from it. ‘Miss Bannerman, I shouldn’t really be dragging you into this, you’re a decent person, my daughter Sarah always said you and your father were good people. I should just walk out of here and let you get on with your own life.’

  ‘You’re not dragging me into anything. I’m in it already.’

  Her visitor stared ahead of him. ‘Positive and negative. Yin and Yang. Good and evil. Light and dark. Perhaps they are forever interwoven, like on your beautiful rug. The light can only shine in darkness – such a simple truth.’ His eyes suddenly revealed a hard, focused expression when he spoke again in less mystical terms. ‘Pharmaceuticals. Drugs to relieve pain, to cure cancer, drugs to retard the ravages of senility, to curb infant mortality. So many good things produced by the pharmaceutical industry. So much improvement to the quality of life.’

  ‘When that industry’s run by caring people,’ she replied.

  Her words brought the shadow of a smile to his face. ‘Ah yes, indeed, wise words.’ He patted his jacket, then rummaged inside his breast pocket and removed a crumpled envelope, which he handed to her.

  ‘Would you have a look, my dear?’

  Inside was a photograph that looked as though it might have been taken in a passport booth. It was of a strikingly attractive Indo-Chinese woman in her mid-twenties.