by J. F. Penn
The man stepped over to him and Martin raised his arms to shield his head. Another blunt blow smashed into his forearm and he moaned, an animal sound that barely registered as human. Scrambling now, he dragged himself towards the altar under the watchful eyes of the famous artists and scientists carved into the wall of memorial plaques.
Martin felt another blow to the back of his head and the world exploded, pain mingling with warmth and then a tingling sensation in his limbs as he fell forward. Oh, my Lord, Martin prayed in desperation, let me live. I'm not ready to die. Take this cup from me. He felt a sob rise in his chest as he gasped for breath, forcing himself to turn over and face his tormentor. The man was pulling something out of his backpack now, a silver spike and a hammer. Martin's stomach wrenched at the thought of what he might do with it. He reached his arms out to the memorials around him, Turner, Millais and William Blake, luminaries of British culture. Their stone eyes looked down upon his suffering as the man advanced. As Martin's vision began to blur, he thought he heard weeping and the rush of angel wings.
Chapter 17
The sun was barely up and Jamie gulped at her large black coffee, trying to shake off the heaviness from lack of sleep after her night at tango. Blake hadn't called back and her texts had gone unanswered, so this morning she had used the police databases to get through to his mother at the family home. The distraught woman had told her of the death of Blake's father, and Jamie had vivid thoughts of Blake drinking in some dive bar, escaping into oblivion to forget his pain. She had seen him in that state before, and remembered how she had almost crept into bed with him one night. After months of relying on his upbeat support, she was torn by guilt that she hadn't been there for him in his grief. She would have to trust that he would come to her when he was ready.
As rays of early morning sun shone on the golden dome of St Paul's, Jamie felt a rush of patriotism, a moment of pleasure and pride at working in the greatest city on Earth. There had been a place of Christian worship at this site since 604 AD, but the iconic dome had been built by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire of London had gutted the church in the seventeenth century. The pride of the capital during the Blitz, the dome had not been bombed, but emerged from the smoke, still standing even as the rest of the city burned. Looking up at the magnificent cupola, Jamie wondered whether it pleased God or man more. Certainly the towering grandeur directed all eyes to the sky, but what then? Jamie felt cool rain spotting her upturned face. Then there was only emptiness, a vaulted Heaven with a God who let children die in pain. Jamie shook her head – it was time to focus on work.
Missinghall spoke with the officer on the door and they entered the cathedral, footsteps echoing in the enormous space, usually filled with tourists but now empty as the crime scene was processed in the crypt. The nave was paved with black and white marble, a chessboard representing the struggle of good and evil. Jamie remembered seeing the same motif draped over Hindu gods in Bali, back before her 'real' life had started, before Polly and the police.
She glanced to her left as they walked down the center of the nave. Two angels guarded a door, one with a sword, the other a trumpet, their wings elegantly draping the floor, faces in repose. Above the door, a scrolled parchment pronounced, Through the gate of death we pass to our joyful resurrection. Jamie had a momentary sense that the door was a portal: that on the other side was another world, where Polly danced. She shook her head, the brief illusion shattered. She definitely needed more sleep.
The somber atmosphere invited reflection, and they walked in silence, looking up at the intricate decoration that dominated this end of the cathedral. The ceiling of the quire was rich with mosaics of creation, so detailed that the abundance flowed into the rest of the church. Three inset roundels depicted palm trees and all kinds of land animals, an azure ocean with spouting whales and flying fish, fruit trees and birds against a golden haloed sun. In the south quire, Jamie looked up at the face of John Donne, a shrouded effigy in marble. A former Dean of St Paul's, his writing praised the God he worshipped and his poetry was still studied in British schools. No man is an island, entire of itself, Jamie thought, the words echoing in her mind from lessons many years ago.
The cathedral was filled with tributes to the military might of Empire, with larger-than-life-size statues of men of war commemorated for their battle triumph. It seemed incongruous in a house of God to have such symbols of death, men who had slaughtered the ancestors of those who were now British themselves. Behind the altar was even a book of the American dead in the Second World War, its pages turned every day by the priests in commemoration of lives given in service.
Classical statues of the great men of the early church looked down upon the Whispering Gallery, and in the dome, sepia paintings portrayed the life of St Paul, transformed on the road to Damascus from persecutor to believer. Between the arches of the cupola were mosaics depicting the Old Testament prophets, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Daniel as well as the four evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. All the luminaries of the Bible were here, gazing down at believers as they worshipped, witnessing how much the simple carpenter's faith had changed the world.
Jamie and Missinghall walked down the stairs towards the muted murmur of the crime scene contained within the lower levels. After suiting up and signing the log, they entered the crypt. It was lit by small candelabra, their light shaded by metal flames, casting a warm glow into the stone space. The ceiling was low and the floor uneven with huge flagstones, which on closer inspection, Jamie realized were all tombstones of the honored dead. The usual bustle of the SOCOs was muted by thick walls and their respect for the house of worship.
The body lay at the base of a wall on the right side of a modern altar, designed to honor those who held the OBE, and flanked by their standards. Blood stained the plaque above the corpse, and Jamie noticed it was a tribute to William Blake, artist, poet and mystic, considered mad in his lifetime. It was carved with a quote from one of his most famous poems, To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.
"This is a strange one," forensic pathologist Mike Skinner said as he stood and walked towards them, careful to step around the perimeter. "There's evidence of blunt-force trauma to the head and body, but then the man's eyeball was pierced by that." He pointed to a long spike with a flared end on the flagstone near the body. The sharp end was coated in blood, clearly visible as the flash of the crime-scene photographer lit up the silver surface. "There's also a medical hammer lying on the other side of the body, used to bang the spike into the man's brain."
"Would that have killed him?" Missinghall asked, his face displaying distaste at the description.
Skinner shook his head. "No, I think he may have even been dead when the pick was inserted so it's more symbolic. I'll have to check it during the autopsy, but I've seen these instruments before in medical history magazines. The spike is a lobotomy orbitoclast icepick used for severing the connections in the prefrontal cortex after insertion through the corner of the eyeball. The mallet was used to drive the pick through the thin layer of bone and into the brain, where it was rotated back and forth." Missinghall looked disturbed as Skinner continued. "Very popular in the United States in the 1930s and '40s of course, but we did enough lobotomies here, too. Brutal, nasty stuff." Skinner shook his head. "Didn't kill most patients, but turned them into vegetables."
"It's got to be related to the murder of Christian Monro," Jamie said. "The link to madness is too much of a coincidence." She left out the matter of Blake Daniel predicting more murders. "Al, do we know if there's any evidence of theft?"
Missinghall shook his head as he checked the notes sent from first responders. "No, the Dean has said that nothing is missing, but perhaps the Canon disturbed someone?"
Jamie looked around the crypt. "But who and why? What could possibly happen down here that would warrant murder?"
Missinghall shrugged. "Sex, maybe
drugs. Something that a churchman might disapprove of."
"We need to know more about the Canon Chancellor," Jamie said. "What was he involved in that could have led to his death?"
"We'll be out of here soon enough," Skinner said. "We can secure this area for the crime scene, but we've been told that nothing stops the Sunday service, so we have to get the bulk of processing done ASAP and get out of here." He looked at his watch. "Only a few hours to go, so I'd best get back to it."
Chapter 18
Shadows shifted in his mind and Blake became aware of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the sound of medical monitors. His head thumped with the familiar rhythm of a hangover, but it wasn't as bad as it should be. He could smell antiseptic, and his skin prickled with goosebumps from cool air conditioning.
Blake opened his eyes. The light was dim but he was clearly in some kind of hospital room. A curtain surrounded his bed, patterned with swirls that made his stomach heave to look at. He closed his eyes again, concentrating on breathing evenly as his body calmed. His ribs ached and his torso was bruised. He remembered the car park, the beating, the two men. He lifted his hand to feel where the pain centered, but it was brought up short by a rattle on the metal bars at the side of the bed. He looked down and could just make out the padded handcuffs that shackled him.
There was a drip attached to a cannula in the back of his right hand. His gloves were gone, leaving his scarred hands vulnerable to the air and, in the dim light, the ivory ropes of damaged skin seemed to glow. His fingertips felt every puff of air in the room, and it seemed that the hangover was making him excruciatingly sensitive. Blake looked around for his clothes and the Galdrabók, the only thing he had left of his father. The fact of Magnus' death resounded through Blake, the absence a finality he had been waiting for all these years. But after what he had seen in that room, he was left with more questions than closure.
Blake shook his hands, tugging on the handcuffs until his heart thumped with the exertion and pain in his head spiked, bringing a wave of nausea. Doubt swirled through his mind. Perhaps he deserved to be here; perhaps he really was mentally ill. Were the hallucinations he had seen with his father evidence that he had gone over the edge?
A sound came from beyond the curtain, a footstep on the tiled floor.
"Is anyone there?" Blake called, his voice a croak. He swallowed, trying again, pushing himself up. "Please, can you tell me where I am?"
The footsteps faltered and then continued. Blake fell back onto the pillows, tension easing in his torso as he relaxed the injured muscles.
A moment later, the light came on and other footsteps approached, sure-footed, confident. The curtain swung back and a man in a white coat stood there. In the room behind him, Blake caught a glimpse of a dentist-style chair, with heavy restraints at the wrists, ankles, waist and neck. Above it was a head brace that could be lowered down so the skull could be held still during stereotactic brain surgery. Machines with wires and electrodes and trays of medical instruments stood on wheeled trolleys near the chair. Blake couldn't help but consider why he was in this particular room. He swallowed, easing his dry throat.
"Good to see you're back with us, Blake."
The man was completely bald with a strangely shaped head, and his eyes were different colors, one blue and one brown. His smile showed perfect white teeth. His angular jaw and prominent cheekbones demonstrated a disciplined diet and he must have been over fifty, although he had the smooth skin of Botox around his eyes and forehead.
"Recovered from your night out?"
The man's voice was mocking and Blake's mind flashed back to the alleyway by the pub. He wanted to smash the metal handcuffs into the man's face, but he could only clench his fists.
"Where am I?" he asked, his voice even and calm, not wanting to give the man any pleasure in his reaction.
The doctor walked around the bed to check on the drip, adjusting the flow rate.
"You're at a private hospital for people with mental illness. I'm Dr Damian Crowther, and you're under my care. As well as providing the very best treatment for our guests here, we perform research on the outer limits of perception."
Blake felt a flicker of his own self-doubt. "I've never even seen a psychiatrist, so why am I here?"
"We've heard reports of your visions, and how they've been helpful in solving certain crimes." The doctor bent and stroked a finger along the scars on the back of Blake's hand. "You have a gift we're interested in researching …" He stood and his voice changed, an edge of hardness creeping in. "Your visions may just be an aberration we can cut out of your brain but just imagine the potential if it can be replicated." Crowther's eyes blazed with fanaticism. "The human mind is the last frontier. Those who come here add to the meager knowledge we have so far on the potential of humanity. Our remit is to pursue high-risk research in order to gain an intelligence advantage, and those who make it through the procedures have given their country a valuable service."
Blake's mind raced at the possibilities of experimentation. He looked beyond the curtains at the restraints on the chair.
"And those who don't make it through your … procedures?" Blake asked, remembering Jamie mentioning a girl who had committed suicide after Monro's psychiatric treatment.
Crowther shrugged.
"The mentally ill are perceived as unstable, at risk. Their families are often relieved to have them controlled by medication and are pleased to have them incarcerated here, whether voluntary or committed. We've even had subjects delivered to our doors, the families begging for help. So, what is the real loss if the subjects pass on during testing?" He smiled, and Blake saw a glimmer of delight in his eyes. "For many of those, suicide becomes a life choice, and if we help them with that after we've learned all we can … Well, we're just saving taxpayers money. But you're a different matter altogether."
Crowther walked over to the bench on the far side of the room and picked up the Galdrabók. "This book is full of things I want to talk to you about." He opened the pages and pulled out the handwritten family tree. "But this evidence of your genealogical history is the real gold. Do you know what the rune next to your name means?"
Blake waited a second and then shook his head, overwhelmed by his desire to know more.
"The symbol is a mixture of the runes for madness, but also for power and supernatural insight. The ancient Greeks used the same word for madness and genius, and the Nordic culture believed the same thing. The runes imply that your father possessed the same gifts as you."
Blake closed his eyes, reliving the horror of his father's last moments as the dark creatures bit into his flesh. Magnus had tried to beat the gift from his son, because he suffered from its enhanced perception himself. Tears welled up as Blake wished for the years back. Together they could have worked out what it was, together they might have found an answer. He pushed the emotion down as Crowther continued.
"It would have been truly marvelous to have you both here. I could have compared the generational effect and even split out the genetics of your line to isolate the key to what gives you this remarkable gift." There was jealousy in his voice, Blake noted. An edge of desire for that which he didn't possess. Crowther opened a drawer and pulled out a syringe and a tourniquet. "For now, we'll have to start with DNA testing and genetic markers for the more common mental health issues." Blake struggled as Crowther walked to the bed. "If you struggle, it will hurt more. It's just a little needle stick, after all. And I know you're curious about your past."
With one last tug on his handcuffs, Blake realized he couldn't stop Crowther and he stilled, allowing the doctor to wrap the tourniquet round and draw the blood. The crimson liquid filled several glass vials. Blake couldn't help but wonder whether there was something different about his physiology, and his mind reeled with the implications of his family's genetic history. There were runes marked on other branches of the tree. There were more like him, cousins perhaps, people who could see just as he did.
; Crowther finished with the extraction and removed the tourniquet. A drop of blood dripped from the tiny wound and ran down Blake's arm. The ache made him want to rub it, but the cuffs were still tight around his wrists.
"You mentioned a remit for high-risk research. What do you actually do here?" he asked.
Crowther stuck a label on each of the vials of blood as he spoke.
"Have you heard of MK Ultra?"
Blake shook his head.
"It was the code name for a secret US government research project through the CIA's scientific intelligence division. The aim was ambitious – to learn about the extent of human behavior through the investigation of mind control, behavior modification …" Crowther looked at Blake, his eyes narrowing. "Psychic ability. But alas, their methodologies meant the project was doomed once it became widely known what they were doing. They used drugs, isolation, torture and abuse on American citizens in the pursuit of knowledge. The aim was to give the USA an intelligence advantage, to create weapons that would target people's minds."
"Did they succeed?" Blake asked, tugging at his wrist restraint again, testing its strength.
"Officially, it was shut down, but of course, aspects continue under other names, other departments – using subjects that won't be missed, much as we do. But when our research found the correlation between mental health status and at least perceived psychic ability, we decided to continue investigation from another angle. What if the voices of schizophrenia are a form of extrasensory perception? What if the sensations of religious ecstasy are a form of mania? What if visions from God – or from the Devil – are just a higher function of the brain that we can all access?" Crowther's eyes were unblinking. A shiver ran down Blake's spine at the depth of his gaze, as if the man stripped away the flesh and bone on his face to see the mind within. He was no longer a person, just a vessel for a brain this man desired.
