by Ed O'Connor
‘Are you on any birth-control pills?’ he asked suddenly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Do you want to have children?’
‘You’re asking me now? On a driveway?’
‘Do you?’ Max studied her face closely.
‘Boy, you are full of surprises. “Want” – yes. “Can” – no.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Premature menopause. The egg store is dried up. I can’t have kids.’
‘You can’t have children?’ Max was struggling to concentrate. The lights were contorting Liz’s face into something disgusting.
‘You asked. I told you.’ Liz approached him and put her arms around his neck. ‘Is that a problem?’
Suddenly she revolted him. Her breath. Her perfume. Her body. She was a horror. She could not have children. She was merely a useless receptacle. He resented her barrenness. He mourned for the progeny of Soma that had already died uselessly inside her.
‘So,’ she said, ‘are you gonna give me the big tour or are we gonna get all maudlin in the driveway?’
He led her inside and showed her the main hallway with its huge staircase and the oil paintings that lined the walls of the corridors. Without interest he showed her the library with its giant east-facing window and high ceiling. Max was rapidly drained of enthusiasm and after only the briefest of tours, he decided to take Liz up onto the roof.
There was a small steel ladder in the huge attic space that led onto the roof via a hatch. It took Max an irritating half-minute to fumble open the padlock. Once he had done so, they both stepped outside.
‘God! It’s beautiful up here!’ Liz observed.
‘You can see forever,’ said Max.
Liz squinted out at forever.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you can see the motorway.’
Max didn’t find her amusing. Liz picked her way across the flat roof, enjoying the view of Thetford Forest to the east. She curled her nose suddenly.
‘Can you smell something?’ she asked, looking back over her shoulder.
Max didn’t move. All he could smell was her putridness.
‘It sure does stink.’ Liz looked around her. There was a bulging grain sack lying a few feet to her right. ‘I think it’s coming from here.’ She approached the bag cautiously. She was close to the edge. Max came over to join her.
‘What the hell is in there, Max?’ she asked undoing the string tie around the neck of the bag.
Max laughed. ‘Funnily enough, that’s the gardener.’
Liz stepped back as the bag fell open, spilling its black and bloody contents over her feet. Max grabbed her and in a swift, powerful movement, flung her over the edge of the building.
Liz Koplinsky only started to scream a split second before she crashed through the roof of the old conservatory seventy feet below.
Max leaned over the edge and peered out at forever. He reached into his pocket, withdrew four ten-pence coins and tossed them into the air.
And so Rowena Harvey had no sense of how lucky she was. Her involvement in his grand plan had so nearly never happened at all. If Liz Koplinsky had not failed him, then Rowena Harvey would only have been a spectator to history rather than an active participant. And yet she still had no understanding of the great duty for which the Soma had selected her. He mused upon how the situation could be rectified. His remaining phials of elixir were of considerable potency. He did not wish to inflict any physiological damage upon the bride of Soma. Perhaps there could be some compromise solution. Max giggled at his unintentional pun. Kissing Rowena Harvey on the forehead and on each nipple before he left, Max hurried downstairs from the master bedroom. The kitchen was located in the basement of the old house, two flights of gloomy stairs below him. It was a chaotic mess of dirt, mushrooms and litter. Max kept the phials of his elixir and clean syringes in the fridge.
He considered his options. The intravenous introduction of the elixir was out of the question as the risks were too great. The toxin concentration was dangerous and Fallon usually mixed his own blood into the elixir. Much as the idea of a needle piercing Rowena Harvey’s skin excited him, he did not want to damage her permanently.
His own preferred method for ingesting small quantities of the Soma was to drink the urine he had expelled and bottled during some of his most kaleidoscopic transformations. Max’s research had alerted him to the fact that many of the magical components of the Soma lived on after passing through the body. He checked his stocks of urine. He counted six one-litre bottles on the kitchen draining board. It was a possibility. However, he felt it unbefitting that the bride of Soma should enjoy her first visit to the Godhead by partaking of his divine piss.
Max sunk to the floor in silent hysterics. His hands touched the soil that was strewn across the floor. ‘This is the dirtiest fucking taxi I’ve ever seen,’ he roared, tears of mirth streaming down his face. It took him ten minutes to calm down. Eventually, Max struggled to his feet and tried to formulate another plan.
Oral ingestion! Of course.
He staggered about the kitchen stunned by the simplicity of his idea: he would make Rowena Harvey an omelette. Had not Zeus assumed the form of a swan before the rape of Leda? Had not Jupiter visited Aegina in the form of a great fire before her impregnation? He knew now that he was writing his own mythology. The Soma would visit Rohini in the form of an omelette.
‘Now,’ he said to the head he had been washing in the kitchen sink. ‘Ingredients?’
Max looked around him, trying to make sense of the detritus and litter scattered around him. ‘This taxi is a fucking mess,’ he giggled, ‘I shall report you to the Hackney Carriage Association of London!’ He found an old frying pan in a cupboard under the sink, it was blackened and ancient but functional.
‘Milk, eggs, onions, fat and mushrooms!’ he clapped his hands together in excitement, ‘Mushrooms we got!’ He picked a particularly juicy-looking Fly Agaric mushroom from his bread bin and chopped it up on a wooden carving board. He emptied it into the frying pan. Then Max’s culinary slide ground to a shuddering halt. He had no milk, no fat and no eggs. He cursed in frustration. He would have to go shopping.
He explained this difficult set of circumstances to Rowena Harvey after an energy-sapping ascent of the east staircase. She lay perfectly still, but watched him wide-eyed with terror.
‘So eggs will be my priority,’ Max announced as he read off his scrawled shopping list. ‘Eggs will make you strong. I’m going to get some little surprises for you too. Seeing as you’re such a good girl.’ He sat down on the bed next to her and ran his index finger in circles around her tummy. ‘You’ve got little blonde hairs under your belly button.’ He stared at her nakedness for a moment, savouring what was to come, before hurrying out of the room.
He climbed into his Porsche and spent an irritating five minutes trying to fumble the keys in the lock. Eventually, he realized that he was trying to start the wrong car and switched to his Land Cruiser. It started immediately. Max roared out into the early evening. He knew there was a twenty-four-hour superstore just north east of New Bolden, about ten miles from his house. He manoeuvred the jeep onto the A10 and accelerated towards New Bolden. His mind fixated on Rowena Harvey. The prospect of impregnating her and siring the lunar race on earth was almost too much for him to bear. He somehow had to make it through one more night without pre-emptively debasing her.
He arrived at the superstore shortly after 6p.m. It was vast, white and intimidating. Max felt highly conspicuous. He chose a shopping trolley instead of a basket as he felt it would be a more effective means of hiding the erection that had ambushed him in the car park and which he now couldn’t get rid of. He made a mental note never to wear his jogging bottoms again in public. He was a Divinity. He was the Soma. The Soma must have dignity.
‘Eggs, milk, fat,’ he repeated to himself as he pushed the trolley up and down the aisles. ‘Eggs, milk, fat.’
Finding the eggs was easy. He selected twelve l
arge barn eggs. The milk took him half an hour to locate. He chose three large plastic containers of semi-skimmed, pleased that he could subsequently use them for the urine of the Soma. He accosted a female shop assistant next to the cheese counter:
‘I’m trying to find the fat,’ he announced.
‘You mean cooking fat?’ the assistant asked, taking a small step backwards after catching a waft of Max’s body odour.
‘I’m specifically after omelette fat,’ Max clarified politely.
‘Try the second aisle on the left.’
Max shambled off in the suggested direction. There was a bewildering choice of fats: sunflower fat, olive fat, low calorie fat. He became confused and settled for olive fat. On the way to the checkout Max passed a large display of disposable nappies. He realised how remiss he had been. He had made no preparations. And Rowena could hardly be expected to go shopping in her condition. He placed a couple of multi-packs of nappies in his trolley, along with baby talcum powder, some small tins of baby food, a packet of rusks and a rattle.
The girl at the checkout wore a red shirt and a badge that said Janice.
‘Hello, Janice,’ said Max Fallon.
She appraised him with tired, hope-starved eyes and smiled an empty smile. She whisked Max’s shopping through the electronic eye. He watched her, hypnotized by the beeping machine.
‘You should try to keep the intervals between the beeps constant,’ he advised, ‘that way you would almost be playing music.’
‘You what?’ Janice frowned.
‘You know: beep … beep … beep … beep … land of hope and glory … beep … beep … beep … beep … monarch of the sea,’ he sung.
‘Thirty-eight pounds sixty-two please,’ Janice held out her hand.
Max gave her a screwed up fifty-pound note he had found in the pocket of his jogging bottoms.
Max had to concentrate hard through the sudden light show that emerged behind his eyes to locate the driveway to the old hall. He shifted his new possessions down to the kitchen and happily made up Rowena Harvey’s magic mushroom omelette. He included four eggs. He wanted to keep her strength up. He was careful to fry the mixture at a low heat so as not to degrade the vital elements within the blood-red mushrooms that garlanded his creation. He was delighted with his work.
Max carried a tray upstairs to the bedroom. It contained his omelette, neatly folded over on a surprisingly clean white plate, a flower he had stolen from a display at the supermarket, a tape recorder, a rattle and a glass of urine.
He pulled down Rowena Harvey’s gag to feed her. She screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Max allowed Rowena to wear herself out. He contented himself with a relaxing drink as he enjoyed the views out of the bedroom window towards the distant bulk of Thetford Forest. Finding a house that so suited his purposes in such an ideal location had been incredibly lucky. He considered it two million pounds well spent, even if the place was falling to pieces. Eventually, Rowena stopped screaming, and Max returned to the bed. He sliced a portion of his omelette and placed it onto a fork. Rowena turned her head away.
‘Now come on, Rowena, have a little piece. You must be starving.’ Fallon plucked the piece of omelette off of the fork and forced it into Rowena’s mouth. He clamped his hand over her mouth and nose until he was satisfied that she had swallowed it. Then he repeated the exercise until she had eaten half of his creation. He picked up the tray and placed it on the bedside table.
‘Look,’ said Max excitedly as he replaced the gag, ‘a flower for you and a little rattle for our baby.’ He shook the blue and red rattle before Rowena’s bewildered and petrified eyes.
‘I have to go now,’ said Max. He pressed play on his tape recorder after noticing Rowena’s eyes were rolling and losing focus, her pupils dilating. ‘Listen to the tape, Rowena. It will take you to the Godhead. Don’t be surprised to find me waiting for you.’
Max left the room as his own voice came onto the tape recorder, reading extracts from the Rig Veda and explaining how he had come to be the Soma. He headed downstairs in a state of high excitement. He found two fifty-pound notes in his favourite jacket and decided to drive back to the service station he had passed on the A10 an hour or so previously. He had heard on his radio that roadside relief was a growth industry.
52
Underwood arrived at New Bolden Infirmary shortly before 9p.m. He had driven directly to Mary Colson’s house after leaving Dexter at Fulford Heath. Finding the cottage empty, he had driven back to New Bolden police station and found a message waiting for him for PC Sauerwine. Entering the hospital gave Underwood a twinge of apprehension. The proximity of death and illness had always reminded him of his own mortality. He crossed the main reception and took a lift to the second floor. Mary Colson had been moved from Accident and Emergency to a recovery ward once the extent of her wounds had been gauged. He found her in the last bay of ward 2F. Sauerwine sat at her bedside, his dark blue uniform incongruous in the bleached, colourless surroundings.
‘Thanks for coming, sir,’ Sauerwine said as Underwood approached. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘No problem. What’s the story?’ Underwood looked at the frail figure sleeping beneath the plain sheet, remembering the death of his own mother.
‘A neighbour was walking his dog down Beaumont Gardens and saw her fall over. He called the ambulance. Sounds like an accident. She was taking out her rubbish and slipped. Apparently she’s been switched onto new medication recently: it can make you feel nauseous. Doctor reckons she got dizzy and lost her balance.’
‘What’s she done to herself?’
‘She badly bruised her right arm and her ribs. Bashed her head as she fell over. It’s a miracle she didn’t break anything. She was in a lot of pain, though.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘An hour or so.’
‘You’re a good egg, Sauerwine.’ Underwood frowned slightly. ‘You say a man was walking his dog outside?’
‘Some old codger, I’ve got his details. Seemed a decent sort. He’s worried we’re going to have his dog put down.’
‘Why? Did the dog have a go at her?’
‘No. There’s no scratches or bites on her but he reckons she stumbled when she was trying to get away from the dog. He’s mortified. You know what these old folks are like. Will you want to speak to him?’
Underwood shook his head. He recalled Mary’s dream. Mary had foreseen her own death at the hands of a dog-man. She had interpreted that the dog-man had also been the murderer of Jack Harvey. Perhaps she had conflated the images, Underwood mused. If Mary did have an ability or gift to see in to the future it seemed plausible that she might have muddled the messages: associated her own pain with that of Jack’s.
‘She’s been right all along,’ Underwood said quietly. ‘What she’s told us has been accurate: generalized, muddled but accurate.’
‘I heard about the bodies on Fulford Heath. I was on my way up here when I got the call about Mrs C.’
‘She said the bodies would be underground but outside. They were. She said she could hear gunshots in the background. Fulford Heath is next to a rifle range. She said there’d be five or six bodies and we found four. Include Jack Harvey and Ian Stark and that makes six.’
‘So far,’ Sauerwine added.
‘There won’t be any more,’ said Underwood confidently. Then he thought of Rowena Harvey. ‘At least I hope not.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Underwood ignored the question and sat down next to Mary Colson. ‘What state is she in? Is she going to be able to talk to me?’
Sauerwine shook his head. ‘She’s on tranquillizers. She’s out for the count. To be honest, I was about to head up to Fulford Heath and see if I could help out. Hospitals depress me.’
Underwood nodded. ‘I’ll stay here for a while.’
Sauerwine collected his notebook and radio from Mary’s bedside table and left the ward. Underwood tried to focus on the basic facts of the case. He fou
nd the silence of the ward helpful. So far they had found six bodies. Five had been decapitated. Victims had been both male and female and of various ages. Both Farrell and Harrison had suggested the killer drove a large expensive car. The tyre tracks on the heath appeared to confirm that he drove a large vehicle. That made sense to Underwood. There was one anomaly Underwood recalled: all the bodies had been found outside except Jack Harvey’s. Jack had been attacked in his own home. The killer had taken pains to burn all of Jack’s records. Had he been trying to erase Jack or his own previous identity? Underwood was becoming increasingly convinced the killer had been one of Jack’s patients.
Underwood had been aware that Jack was living beyond his means: a beautifully furnished house and office, a new expensive car. Perhaps Jack had been doing private consultations in addition to his police work. It was against regulations but an understandable lapse. There was a possibility that the killer was wealthy. Had he been paying Jack inordinate amounts for treatment? Underwood’s mind collided with a brick wall. It made no sense. Why would anyone financially secure pay a police psychiatrist for treatment when they could afford specialist attention? Through the dim light of his exhaustion, Underwood saw a possible reason.
Mary Colson shifted slightly in her bed. Underwood wondered if Julia had lit a candle for his own mother as she had promised. He felt a pang of guilt that he had not done so himself. When he had tried on previous occasions he had not found it a helpful process. It had made him feel like a hypocrite. He leaned his head back against the wall and, tired of his own mind, drifted into a light sleep.
He dreamed of Julia. She was in church. It was dark. He was blowing out candles as she lit them. They had walked down the aisle together. Julia had knelt in front of the altar. He could hear a baby crying. He looked around. The noise grew louder. He looked again. There was a baby lying on the altar table. He walked up and considered the child’s face. The baby was screaming, gasping away its life. Alison Dexter was standing beside him. She was screaming too.
