Influence

by Chris Parker

  The room darkened.

  Simon blinked. He looked at his hands, resting on the thin metal arms of the chair. He was comfortable with the fact that they were distant, that he could neither feel nor move them. He felt a warmth in his chest and stomach. It recreated the feeling he experienced often before, when tired at the end of a very long day. It was the feeling that came with being satisfied with himself and with life, with needing to sleep – knowing it was close – but wanting to stay awake for just a few minutes more to enjoy the wonderfully soothing mixture of achievement, relaxation and security.

  ‘It feels fabulous, doesn’t it?’ The killer said.

  Simon smiled. At least he believed he was smiling. He couldn’t actually tell whether the muscles in his face were moving or not.

  ‘That’s OK,’ the killer said. ‘It’s what is happening on the inside that is most important. Sadly – tragically – there is too often a massive disconnect, between what people say and what they are actually feeling inside. You know that as well as I do. The tragedy is not that they try to hide it from experts like us, it’s that they actually hide it from themselves. Tell me, how can they ever expect to be happy?’

  Simon looked at the intruder. In his mind he said, ‘It isn’t their fault. Everyone wants to be happy. We are all searching for happiness. We just don’t always know how to share ourselves – how to communicate – well with others. Most people don’t understand the power they have to influence. They don’t know how easy it is to hurt themselves as well as those around them.’

  The killer watched and waited until Simon had finished. Then he said, ‘They all have the opportunity to learn. The truth is they don’t want to. Even those who say they do – even many of those who teach others – don’t really want to make the effort needed to become truly skilled. They think they know how to look and listen because physically they can, because they were born biologically capable. In my eyes they are no more worthy of emotion than rats that are caged and used by scientists.’

  Simon felt himself tense with anger and then abruptly tremble with fear as the absolute conviction of the other man hit him like a powerful wave. This man’s certainty came out of the very pores of his skin. His presence was overwhelming.

  Simon realised at that moment that he would never speak again. He knew that his home had become someone else’s laboratory. He thought instinctively of Cassandra and his mind conjured a series of fast-playing images, as if flicking at high-speed through a private photograph album, showing the life they could have created together.

  Simon watched the images, amazed that in the deepest recesses of his subconscious he had already imagined the rest of his life with her. Then the sequencing slowed. The images began to move away from him, floating into space, shrinking, losing their colour; leaving him forever.

  Simon didn’t feel the tears running down his face.

  The killer saw it all. He felt nothing. When the images had disappeared he said, ‘You are alone, Simon. We are all alone. Alone with our own peculiar perspectives. Alone with our own terrifying fears. What, I wonder, are yours?’

  Simon’s mind couldn’t resist the question. He thought immediately of his parents dying, of his younger sister living with an abusive partner. He thought of his failure to change the world. He thought – tried to think – of what this man was going to do with him. And, worst of all, he thought of this man alone with Cassandra.

  ‘You should always put yourself first,’ the killer said. ‘If you don’t, you can never hope to be able to look after others. It’s a lesson that is irrelevant for you now, but learning never stops. So why not learn something even if you will never be able to apply it?’

  The killer nodded again, this time in support of his own argument.

  Simon was completely unable to move.

  He could feel nothing.

  Not even his fear.

  Simon was alive and yet he was, he knew, close to death. The strange comfort-blanket of absolute certainty was wrapping ever more tightly around him. The thought that he should have been feeling despair was like the faintest cloud on a very distant horizon.

  Then, for the first time, Simon saw the brown leather holdall the killer had placed on the floor. His hands automatically tightened their grip on the slim, aluminium arms of the chair. He didn’t notice.

  The killer did.

  ‘It is time’, he said. ‘We are both ready.’

  It was true. Simon had never been so sure of anything in his life.

  It seemed to him that what happened next took place in slow motion.

  41.

  The killer opened the bag and removed a variety of tools, placing them in neat lines on the carpet. He took out a bright red jigsaw, a drill, a hammer and chisel, forceps, a scalpel, cotton thread and gauze. Then a white laboratory coat and thin, surgical gloves. Finally, he took out some brown, heavy-duty adhesive tape. He used that to silently and swiftly secure Simon to the chair. That done, he picked up the cotton thread and placed it in one of his coat pockets.

  ‘To carry out this procedure most people – even highly trained surgeons – would need at least one very bright light to ensure they could see everything clearly,’ he said. ‘I, however, do not. Although the margins of error are very fine, my eyesight is even more acute. You can rest assured that I will not make a mistake.’

  The killer put on the lab coat and the gloves. Then he picked up the scalpel. He pushed the razor-sharp point into Simon’s head, a little more than one centimetre above his right temple. He pushed until the tip of the blade scraped against Simon’s skull. Blood began to flow down his face. The killer was unconcerned. ‘I have to scalp you first,’ he said. ‘Because of the state you are in you will feel no pain. You won’t even feel the blood. You will see it though. In a few moments it will be spurting from you. You can give yourself permission to be surprised by its force. You can even enjoy the show if you choose. It will be brief, but it might make you wonder why life abandons us with such enthusiasm. Because I need to you to continue for some time yet I will stem the blood flow and tie up the necessary arteries. Unlike the vast majority of others who have suffered this fate, scalping will not be the death of you.’

  The killer forced the scalpel in a circular line around Simon’s head. At times the blade scratched bone. It took only one minute to return to the original starting point. Blood flooded down. The scalp was still not fully free. The killer reversed the scalpel, using the handle to force apart the occasional sticky, fibrous tissue that was holding it in place. With that done, he dropped the scalpel to the floor and used the fingers of his right hand to complete the task. When Simon’s scalp came away the killer lifted it clear and dropped it next to the scalpel.

  Blood was firing from the arteries he had severed. Some even hit the curtains. Simon’s head was such a bloody mess that it was difficult to see the precise points of leakage. The killer calmly picked up the gauze and the forceps. Blood sprayed his white lab coat. He didn’t respond to it. Instead he used the gauze to apply pressure. Once the blood was under control, he placed the forceps around the end of a damaged artery and pinched tight. Maintaining the pressure he reached into his pocket took out the thread and tied it off. He repeated the process with a second artery. The blood spurts stopped.

  The killer stepped back for a moment as if admiring his handiwork. Simon was still conscious. The killer could see that his heartbeat was still strong. The trance was protecting him from the physical trauma. It was time for the second part of the procedure.

  The killer didn’t speak. He simply picked up the drill and made a hole through Simon’s skull in precisely the same place he had started cutting. When he felt he had gone in far enough, he put the drill down and took up the jigsaw.

  Simon heard the saw buzz into life. He felt its teeth against his skull. He was aware of the pressure and the movement. He was back in time. He was reminded of a wo
odwork class at school. He knew the sound. In his mind’s eye he could see dust clouds and splinters.

  The killer could see the same. Only the dust and the splinters were bone.

  It took him ten minutes to saw around Simon’s skull. When he stopped it was clear that he had not sawn to the required depth in every place. And, as with the scalp, some fibrous tissue was still helping to hold the cranium in place. That is why he had brought the hammer and chisel. The killer used both to complete his work. He was methodical and unhurried. Simon noticed the dull, flat sound as the chisel tore through the remaining tissue. He felt an unusual coldness as the killer removed the top of his skull. He didn’t see it being placed on the floor next to his scalp. His eyes had been closed for what seemed like forever.

  The killer looked at the white, ridged tissue of Simon’s brain, at the fibrous membrane that covered it, at the clear spinal fluid below. He felt a sudden surge of excitement and anticipation. He controlled it instantly. Now he had to deepen Simon’s trance even more. Now their communication would move on to a completely different level.

  To do that he had to access a trance of his own. He had to move partway at least towards the place where Simon was. Then, and only then, could he create the experience he sought.

  The killer prepared himself. Simon’s brain looked as if it was pulsing in readiness. The killer breathed a gentle breath onto the right hemisphere.

  Listen to me now, he whispered. Feel my influence. Show yourself…

  Thirty minutes later the killer left the apartment as quietly as he had entered it. Outside the water of the canal was already darkening as the winter sky lowered and drew itself together. The fisherman he had noticed on his arrival was nowhere to be seen. The killer wondered if he had caught anything at all.

  42.

  Marcus Kline believed in the value of fishing. It was one of his most powerful communication techniques. It was one of the ways he got under the skin of someone else, how he was able to make them reveal themselves to him, how he was able to see what they were really thinking, or feeling, or aspiring to at any given moment.

  The key to understanding others was to get below the surface of whatever they were deliberately presenting and to hear what was left unsaid. Any half-decent educator, counsellor or, for that matter, politician, knew that. What very few people could do consistently and accurately was access that information. To do that you not only needed to be able to see and hear acutely, you also needed a method.

  Marcus had created the method he called fishing early on in his career. Very simply, whenever Marcus went fishing he would provide a very deliberate stimulus to the person he was seeking to understand and then watch and listen to their responses. The stimulus would change according to the person and the context. It might be a story or a suggestion, or a challenge or critique. If necessary, he would simply repeat everything that he had already said in a previous meeting. What was common, though, no matter what the stimulus, was the relaxed intensity with which Marcus watched the often non-verbal responses. He had decided to think of it as fishing because it was the most appropriate metaphor he could conjure. The technique made him feel like a fisherman, selecting and offering the most appropriate bait, then sitting back and watching what happened next. The difference between himself and an actual fisherman was that they could very rarely see what was happening below the surface, whilst he always could.

  As Marcus stood by the canal and looked into the dark water he thought back over the last few days and considered not for the first time whether or not he had got everything right.

  Marcus had been fishing in his most recent meetings with Peter Jones. In fact, he had been doing very little else. If there had ever been a time when he needed to reel in the truth, this was most certainly it. Events were building to a head and, if he was going to see it through to his desired end outcome, he needed to be absolutely clear about what was happening at every level. That meant being absolutely clear about what was going on in Peter Jones’s mind. Ideally, he had to be influencing Peter to think and act in the way that he, Marcus, wanted him to. Only that was not proving easy. Peter had his defences well and truly in place. They were both working to interconnected yet very different agendas. They were both highly skilled.

  Marcus wondered what strategy Peter would employ next, whether he would explicitly use his professional role to exert power, to clearly redefine the nature of their interaction, or whether he would try to hide that away behind their friendship. Marcus let the canal help his mind drift, letting all of the possibilities and their associated pluses and minuses float before him. He settled, as he always did, for the conclusion that felt right.

  It would be the latter, he decided. Peter would realise that his only chance of gaining the upper hand was to hide behind the truth. And the truth was they were best friends. Who for now just happened to be unstated adversaries.

  Marcus had not been in the office today. It was the first time he had ever let something take precedence over his work. But this was a situation unlike any other. Uncertain and dangerous, Marcus thought. And however hard the race had been so far, they were fast approaching the last lap.

  The hardest part of the race.

  He was sure that both he and Peter were prepared to do anything to win.

  It was at that moment that Marcus’s phone buzzed with the sound of an incoming text. He allowed himself to be distracted by it. It was a conscious decision; a simple reminder that he was still running his own mind. As further proof, he refused to let himself consider who might be texting. He doubted that Peter had such self-control.

  The text was from Anne-Marie. It came as a complete shock. He had been keeping her out of his thoughts. Given the unparalleled stresses of the week and, if he was completely honest with himself, the decision he had made to end their marriage, he had found it easy to do.

  He hesitated for a moment, waiting until he had regained his composure, before keying in his password and reading the message.

  My Dearest Love, I hope you are safe and well. I am on my way home. I cannot tell you how much I need to see you again. There are important things we need to talk about, things we need to share. I am sorry for not having been completely honest

  with you. Since I have been away I have come to realise that together we can accomplish anything.

  I will be with you soon, my Love!

  PS I know now that you were right – it is impossible to capture a universal truth from behind a camera!

  AM xx

  Marcus read the text twice. He couldn’t help but wonder in what way she had been dishonest and what had happened to change her philosophy as a photographer. More importantly he could feel her affection for him – her love – in a way that he hadn’t for several years. The sensation tugged at his mind, wanting him to remember how it was when they first met, wanting him to relive the memories and the associated emotions, to feel the way he used to. It drew him back in time, reminding him of how he had described and thought of her when their love had first grown.

  My Angel.

  It had seemed such an apt description. Anne-Marie had been so understanding, so optimistic, so bright. Marcus had actually been surprised at himself when he had first thought of her in this way. For a man whose God was the power of the subconscious, it seemed an artificial, almost hypocritical, descriptor. Yet from the very beginning it had sounded and felt right. He had accepted it – been able to accept it – because he decided it was the perfect metaphor, another example of the power of words, a perfect representation. Nothing more.

  As the memory strengthened Marcus suddenly recognised the danger it presented. He shook his head to clear it. This was the last thing he needed right now. After all he had made a decision. He was going to end their relationship. It had been the most difficult decision he had ever made, but he had made it. The full stop was in place. The time for internal chatter was over.

 
So why was the text affecting him so? Was it an indication that he had got the decision wrong? Was that possible?

  Marcus returned the phone to his jacket pocket. For the first time since the murders had started, since Anne-Marie’s departure, he felt his self-control waver. It ran from his mind to his body in a swift, seamless transition; easy as the tide coming in; just as dangerous.

  Marcus knew that he couldn’t afford to give ground. He couldn’t afford to doubt his decision-making ability. Not now. Not with so much at stake. He needed instead to break his state. Fast.

  To his right, on the ground floor of an apartment block, a young woman switched on her lounge light. Marcus glanced automatically in her direction. She was the distraction he needed.

  The woman saw him look and closed the curtains in deliberate fashion. The material was thin. He could still see her outline through them as she moved, her shadow showing like a puppet in an Asian play. The difference, though, was that this was real life reduced to shadow. Marcus was sure that the woman didn’t realise that she was still on show, faceless, lacking detail and depth. He was sure most people didn’t.

  For the briefest second the thought occurred to him that to be a shadow was perhaps to have the best of both worlds. Present and yet pain free. Associated and yet guiltless. The thought made him shiver. It was an argument for surrender, for choosing not to make decisions, for refusing to accept responsibility. It was a thought, an argument, he could not tolerate. Not with everything that was happening and was about to happen. If the coming battle was as difficult as he expected it to be, if the opposing force was truly as powerful as he believed, then responsibility might well be the deciding factor.

  Responsibility will be King, Marcus told himself. And I have to win. No matter what. No matter what the consequences. I have to win.

  Marcus turned to face the city centre and set off along the canal path. Behind him, in the ground floor apartment, the shadow was no longer visible against the curtain. Marcus didn’t look back. It was too late for that. His decisions had been made. The verdict was in.