by Peter James
Gunn did not respond. He was studying the checklist of names, deep in thought. Zandra Wollerton. Hubert Wentworth. Charles Rowley. Conor Molloy. Montana Bannerman. Dr Richard Bannerman.
Dr Bannerman. He was still an unresolved problem. He drank some of his Martini and stared at Nikky’s mane of dark red hair. She was a problem, also. Ever since she’d looked at the names on his computer. She was a problem that was going to have to be dealt with.
Loose ends. You could never leave loose ends. Like chickens, they always came home to roost.
‘It is her, isn’t it?’ she said again.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Christmas trees.’
‘What?’
She looked round the bedsitting room. ‘Not many days left to Christmas, soldier. What are you doing about decorations in this palatial dump?’
‘Niks, please.’ He tried again to focus his mind.
‘“Niks, please,’” she mimicked again, and ate another olive. ‘Her. Your friend. The one on the Christmas list.’
He drained his glass. ‘Any chance of not talking in riddles?’ He glanced up at the television which was switched on, with the sound mute. Mariella Frostrup was speaking and there was a twinkle in her eye; he tried to lip-read, but she was no more intelligible than Nikky. Mariella Frostrup disappeared and was replaced by a slimy, bug-eyed monster; it was holding what looked like a dismembered arm in its claws. ‘Hey, Niks, look at that! Your twin sister’s on the box.’
‘Looks more like your ex, soldier.’ Without glancing round, she passed the Evening Standard over her shoulder. ‘Her,’ she said. ‘The front-page splash. Your friend.’
He reached forward and took the paper. The headline read: LONDON CAR BOMB HORROR KILLS TWO.
He stared at the photograph of the mangled MG, then he scanned the article. ‘Police are still trying to ascertain the identity of the two victims … may have been the bombers … believe the bomb may have been planted by Animal Rights terrorists … intended target was Montana Bannerman … daughter of Nobel Prize-winning scientist Dr Richard Bannerman, who is on life support in hospital after suffering a massive stroke … trying to contact Miss Bannerman who is believed to be overseas on business …’
‘Montana Bannerman,’ Nikky said. ‘She was on your list with the Christmas trees. The same list that had your colleague Charley boy on it, the one who drowned in Hawaii. You seem to be awfully careless with your employees, soldier. Don’t think I’d like to work for you. Bit risky.’
113
Washington. Thursday 8 December, 1994
Monty was awoken by a sound in the room, a faint, slippery thud; she stared into the darkness, startled.
Two eyes stared back.
Bulging, iridescent eyes, watching her with mild curiosity, from a few feet away. Moments later they were joined by another pair, then another. More began appearing every moment, filling the air with the sour smell of their reptilian skin. They were silent at first, then a solitary croak echoed through the chamber.
‘Rrribbbettt.’
Silence.
Then out of the silence, a response. ‘Rrribbbettt.’
Trembling with fear, Monty tried – very quietly – to edge back, but she was already flat against the unyielding wall. The door was on the far side of the bitumen blackness that was alive with blinking eyes and the growing chorus of croaks. As she took the first tentative step towards it, her foot squelched deep into a slimy, wriggling carpet.
She jerked back in horror. Something thudded into her chest; then something wet and streamlined struck her cheek. The creatures were leaping on to her out of the darkness now, their webbed feet dabbing at her hair, her chest, striking her shoulders, her stomach; then they covered her face, blinding her, pushing their legs into her eyes.
‘Noooooo! Uurrgggghh!’ She clawed desperately at them, hurling them away; even more flung themselves out of the darkness at her, their legs flexing, coiling. ‘Uurrgggghh!! Oh God, help meeeeeee!’ They were falling out of the ceiling on to her in droves, going to knock her over with their sheer collective weight. ‘Help me! Please, someone help meeeee –’
‘MONTY!’
The voice came from somewhere else; another planet.
‘Monty! Darling! Hon!’
It was Conor’s voice, calm, soft, whispering. ‘Monty, darling, it’s OK, wake up; come on, wake up!’
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in the sudden brightness of the bedside light, confused, checking out the room carefully, looking at Conor’s anxious face. They were in a hotel room. In – in –? She could not remember where. Not Conor’s apartment in London? No, America? Yes, Washington. But then all the relief she felt as the dream receded was ripped away as the memory of last night returned.
Washington.
Conor’s mother’s house.
She had tried to strangle herself.
Her neck was hurting; she gingerly touched her flesh; it hurt even more under the lightest pressure. Dr Crowe! Dr Crowe had tried to make her kill herself.
She looked up at Conor’s eyes, inches above her own, blurry, concerned. His hair was tousled; such warmth in that face; such kindness. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t leave me.’
He kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Don’t worry, I’m right here. What were you dreaming?’
She hesitated, as if scared that by mentioning it she would bring the dream back, or somehow make it real. ‘Frogs. I dreamed the room was full of the damn things and – they – they were attacking me.’
‘You have a thing about frogs, don’t you? I remember that one that got in your kitchen and really freaked you.’
She swallowed. ‘Ever since childhood. It’s stupid and I’m sorry I woke you, but –’
‘You told me. It’s not stupid. Everyone has something they’re afraid of.’
‘What really happened to me yesterday, Conor?’
‘You were psychically attacked. Dr Crowe somehow got to you – he hyptnotized you into hanging yourself.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘My mother’s the expert – she’s been involved with this kind of stuff all her life. There are some people who are able to focus their minds, to harness energies, to project. It’s kind of like the same power some shamans have, or the power of voodoo. And it’s very real.’
‘And Dr Crowe has that power?’
‘It would seem, yes.’ He hesitated, wondering whether to tell her about his narrow escape in the taxi. He decided against.
She touched his cheek with her hand, to reassure herself that he was real. ‘Is this how it’s going to be from now on, Conor? Are we going to be in constant fear?’
He said nothing.
‘God, I thought Bendix Schere was a dream come true. I thought it would solve all our problems and give me the chance to lead a normal life.’ She laughed bitterly.
‘Did you ever live a normal life?’ he asked quietly. ‘Does anyone?’
She sighed before replying. ‘I did once, when I was a child, when my mother was alive,’ she said wistfully. ‘It felt good in those days. I did the same things as other kids, we did the same things as other families. That’s what I mean. How about you? When you were a boy?’
‘That was all a long time ago. That was then and this is now.’
‘You always say that.’
‘It’s a universal truth; nothing stays the same. And the way we measure things changes, also. The yardstick I had for normality when I was a kid of seven is different from the one I have now.’
Monty contemplated and knew, in one way, that he was right. She snuggled closer to him, saying, ‘Whatever happens, I hope we have some time together. I hope that more than anything in the world.’
‘So do I.’ He kissed her. ‘Want to go back to sleep?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m wide awake.’
‘Our time clocks. We’re on UK time.’
Restlessly she looked around the plush, rather blan
d room. ‘Is this the house you grew up in?’
‘It was a lot smaller. About a quarter this size. Mom keeps adding bits on.’
‘She makes her money dowsing for the oil industry?’
‘She makes a fortune.’
‘Did she ever remarry?’
‘No. She’s a pretty strong character – not too many men are able to stand up to someone like that.’
She watched his face. ‘Why do you and your mother have a different last name?’
‘I figured Bendix Schere would remember my pa’s surname and it might start ringing bells when I joined the company; so I reinvented myself; that’s all.’
‘Makes sense,’ she said, relieved by his answer.
Conor lit a cigarette and gave Monty a drag; it made her cough, and her thoughts returned to the present. ‘What am I going to do about this dinner at the White House, and Daddy’s talk tomorrow?’
‘Don’t even think about them. Unless you want to announce that the speaker’s been kidnapped.’
‘Hey, you know!’ she said. ‘That’s not such a dumb idea. I could do that – we have the tape, right? That would cause all hell to –’
‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘That’s too dangerous.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Bendix Schere are very, very smart. And because you want to get your father back, not get him killed.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Just believe me.’
114
‘Organizer’s Office, how can I help you?’
‘Is that the World Genetics Symposium?’ Monty asked.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘It’s Montana Bannerman speaking. I’m calling regarding my father, Dr Bannerman, who’s meant to be talking tomorrow, and –’
‘Yes,’ the male voice interrupted. ‘We are very sorry to hear about Dr Bannerman’s stroke. We have him down as cancelled.’
‘Stroke?’ she echoed. ‘Did you say stroke?’
‘That’s the information I have. We were informed by fax – is there –?’ His words hung in the air.
‘I – I’m sorry – I think, I – I didn’t realize someone had already been in touch.’ She thanked him lamely and hung up.
‘Stroke,’ she repeated automatically to Conor. ‘Someone from Bendix Schere has rung the Symposium office and told them Daddy’s had a stroke.’
Conor was working on his laptop which had arrived in his suitcase by taxi from Dave Schwab’s home a short while ago, and he barely looked up. ‘They’ll have it all in hand, you can be sure as hell of that.’
‘But, Conor –’
‘Your father has not had a stroke.’
Monty turned round, startled, to see Tabitha Donoghue striding into the room, dressed, as yesterday, all in black.
‘He’s being held against his will but he’s not sick and he’s not injured,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell exactly what they’re doing to him, but I would guess he’s been doped.’ Then the tone of her voice changed, and she jerked her head towards the window. ‘We have company.’
‘Like who?’ Conor said.
‘I just took a walk down to the gates. Two guys in a blue Chevrolet parked a hundred yards down the hill; third time I’ve checked – they’ve been there all morning.’
It felt as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. Although Monty had been expecting a tail, the confirmation scared her.
Tabitha sat down beside her and examined the weals on her neck for a moment. ‘They’re doing fine. I’ll lend you a turtleneck to hide them when we leave. We’re booked on a seven o’clock flight to Heathrow.’
‘We?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
Monty had come to accept Tabitha, for all her strange aura, and she was gladdened by this news. Not least because there was safety in numbers. Wasn’t there? She glanced at her watch. It was midday. ‘We can’t get – there – there’s no flight sooner?’
‘Nothing that’s going to make much difference. As we’re being watched, I think it’s smarter to wait here and leave after dark. I’ve also made smokescreen reservations in our names on other airlines to Los Angeles, Rome, New York, Hong Kong and Sydney.’
‘Dark or not, we’re going to have a problem with the guys outside the gates when we leave,’ Conor contributed.
His mother smiled. ‘That’s taken care of. I have a good friend in the local police. I just have to call him an hour beforehand. He’ll have those creeps tied up every which way to Sunday in a stolen vehicle check, and he’s going to give us an escort right to the airport and on to the plane.’
She turned to Monty next. ‘As for you, my dear, we’re going to have to make sure you use all the protection protocols. This Crowe character has forged a very strong link through to you; when a channel like that has been opened once, it can be reopened very easily. Any dairy products will heighten your emotional responses, particularly fear. We need to damp your emotions right down so they become harder for anyone outside to manipulate.’
Monty frowned; she found it hard to believe that milk or butter could make any difference. It was her life she was worried about, not her diet.
But Tabitha had not finished. ‘Do you wear your crucifix for any special reason?’
‘Yes, it’s sentimental; it belonged to my mother. Do you think it can help?’
She looked at Monty reproachfully. ‘I’ve never understood why people think carrying the symbol of Christ around is going to act like some magic shield. We’re talking about psychic attack, not religion, OK?’
Monty nodded, rebuked.
Tabitha tapped her head. ‘You do realize that we’re dealing with the occult here, don’t you? And the occult is about harnessing the powers of the planet, of the universe, of the human mind. It’s about living forces, not dead gurus.’
Monty already felt out of her depth; but there was more to come.
‘Satan is a logo, Monty. A brand name, a product packaged and sold by the Church; a big stick to beat the flock with and keep them in line. And the Church’s very convenient bogeyman.’ Tabitha Donoghue looked at her solemnly. ‘The people we’re up against aren’t interested in that kind of mumbo-jumbo claptrap. They may use all the black imagery, but what they’re about is power. And power comes through control: the control of the physical, the control of the mind. The power that can enable a man three thousand miles away to persuade a rational young woman to stand on a rickety table and wind a wire around her neck.’
Monty was genuinely intrigued and just wished that the drama they were talking about had a different cast. ‘Where does this power come from – and how is it harnessed?’ she asked.
‘It comes from the natural energies of our planet, our universe, our minds and our bodies. I think we may find the answer one day in quantum mechanics. The old scientists used to believe that the mind and the universe were separate, and that the universe was greater than either any individual human mind, or the sum of all human minds. But right now no one understands or can define the real extent of the powers of the human mind.’
Monty nodded; she could accept that.
‘I will give you as much protection as I can, Monty, but I can’t guarantee it’s going to be enough,’ Tabitha continued. ‘You need to take salt-water baths to purify your auras. Anyone under psychic attack must work from the outside in. Salt water will help shield you from Crowe’s attempts to project to you.’ She lit a cigarette, and gave Monty a smile of encouragement. ‘You see, they have to make a dent in your aura before they can attack. When you feel under attack you have to try to visualize your aura as a shield.’
Monty remembered in a scientific magazine once seeing photographs of people’s auras; they looked like psychedelic space-suits. She tried to picture her own aura as a shield, but the image was elusive. ‘How often do I have to take a salt bath?’
‘Daily. And I’m going to give you a visualization to do.’ She glanced at Conor, then looked back at Monty. ‘I want you to think of a gold c
ross in your solar plexus and another at the base of your skull. Not religious crosses, just two pieces of gold intersecting. These are the two mega-nerve meeting points in the body.’
Monty looked down at the area of her own solar plexus, then touched the base of her skull with her fingers. The movement hurt her neck muscles.
‘Have you ever studied martial arts, Monty?’
‘No.’
‘These are the points in martial arts to go for. If you visualize strongly enough you get them radiating gold, and if the attack is very violent you can make them radiate white lights. You can’t maintain it for long, because you’ll get violent headaches if you try. But whoever’s perpetrating the attack cannot maintain their energy level for long either. Remember that.’
She tapped some ash off, then drew on her cigarette again. ‘You need to have salt with you all the time. Wherever you are, make a circle of salt and stay inside it. Nothing can live in salt, and nothing of a psychic nature can pass through it.’
She opened her handbag and removed from it a small piece of paper folded inside a zipped freezer bag, which she handed to Monty. ‘Conor already has one of these.’
Monty opened the clear bag, took out the paper and unfolded it. It was covered in a mass of letters and symbols.
‘You keep it in the bag because you mustn’t wet it – it can cause havoc if that happens, like something electrical shorting out. It’s called a Lumiel square and it’ll be your protective talisman. Keep it with you and it’ll protect you physically and mentally. It will also protect your soul.’ She nodded reassuringly, as if trying to dispel Monty’s scepticism.
‘I used to have a young woman in one of my development circles when I worked as a medium. She always carried one of these. Well, she was in a real bad car smash. Of five kids, three were killed, and one is in a persistent vegetative state. But she got out with just a few scratches.’
Accepting the Lumiel square, as she was accepting everything right now, Monty thanked the older woman warmly.
Tabitha leaned back reflectively. ‘And to think I believed I’d left all this stuff behind years ago. I never intended, ever, to get back into all this shit.’
