At that instant, Peter had the opportunity of reading the mix of emotion – shame, embarrassment perhaps a certain amount of relief in his father’s head. Perhaps, at that point, Peter had the chance to see it was this shameful secret and not dislike of his son that lay at the root of the distance all these years. But Peter wasn’t a great one for thoughtful introspection, perhaps no boy would have been under the circumstances. His lip curled, his resentment, fear and incomprehension blended and boiled over as he stared at his father – unloved in suit, tie and bowler, how much more despised, in pink lace.
Creativity Peter didn’t know he had in him, took over with a will all its own and an opened tube of lipstick rose from the dressing table. It slashed deeply and wetly red all over his father’s quivering cheeks and double chin, mixing with tears and stubble as he stumbled backward, covering his be-crimsoned face with both arms. Not a single word was exchanged and the boy stood by the door as the man was marched inexorably into the ensuite bathroom to clean off the make-up.
Nobody ever quite got to the bottom of what really happened. Certainly not Peter, who successfully and completely blotted any assistance he might have given his father from the surface of his mind, putting it somewhere only someone like Glory could have seen it. The assumption was suicide. Mr Atkins had climbed into the bath and slashed both wrists with his own razor. He was dressed, by then, in his own conservatively striped pyjamas and if the police and examining medical officer spotted traces of cosmetics on the jowly dead face, they looked the other way and saw no possible reason for mentioning it and bringing further distress to a hysterical widow and her silent son.
As far as Peter was concerned, his father’s end justified any means and it genuinely didn’t cause him undue angst. However, he was bright enough to know there were clearly defined patterns of behaviour to which it behoved him to conform. He was therefore silently deep in shock when people expected him to be and sobbed and screamed for his father when he read it was the correct time for him to break down and let it all out. And all the while, he was preoccupied with this wondrous and growing power he possessed. Tentatively at first, increasingly bolder as he explored its possibilities and limitations, to his pleasure he found that the former were far greater than the latter.
Being in the top percentile of his class where exam results, if not popularity, were concerned, Peter had naturally been included when his school was approached to participate in the social study at Newcombe and had set off on the coach, unconcerned at the lack of kids clamouring to sit next to him. Never much liked at school, his new-found talents certainly hadn’t earned him any new friends and most of his peers instinctively gave him a wide berth. He’d amused himself on the journey by playing with the coach-driver’s mind, causing his eyes to slide shut and his head to nod until the coach veered dangerously to the middle of the road, allowing the poor chap to jerk himself awake only at the last moment, appalled by his inexplicable and potentially lethal drowsiness. Discretion, decided a severely shaken Glory, as she hastily withdrew from her initial contact with Peter, in this case was almost certainly going to be the better part of valour. Being what she was, through the years she’d been unable to avoid a thorough grounding in the vagaries and often more unsavoury aspects of human nature, but Peter was something else altogether and she’d been startled and repelled by his hungrily avaricious response to her approach. The sensation of his reaching out, seeking via the contact to climb up and into her mind, was not something she’d forget in a hurry. It seemed, that while Peter was on the scene, it would be sensible not to stick her head above the parapet. She therefore made sure that whilst she pointed him out to Miss Merry as being worthy of further attention and a potential high test-scorer, she added no further details and took good care to batten down her hatches.
The surging pleasure of Peter, at finding this wasn’t really some sodding social study as he’d been led to believe, was equalled only by the Doctor’s unmitigated delight at such a promising new subject. Having at this stage, already been through the testing of three or four hundred healthy children and found nobody who set bells ringing, the Doctor had been running short of patience. When Peter turned up he was greeted like manna from heaven and that, as Glory put it, was when the shit really hit the fan.
“And …?” I’d been hanging on every word, only partially aware everyone had finished eating and the table had been cleared.
“Sufficient for now.” Ruth gave me a friendly push in the direction of the stairs, “Go, pack your things so we can get off.”
“Off?”
“To Oxford.”
“I can’t go just like that, I’ve got to call my parents.”
“All dealt with, Rachael called already.”
“She keeps doing that.” I was indignant.
“Saves time.” said Miss Peacock who was whisking the last of the lunch things away. I sensed Ed was torn between gratitude at her doing anything at all in the kitchen and exasperation at the way she was sending things into all the wrong cupboards.
“That,” I said with dignity, “Is beside the point.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Outside the house, parked behind the Morris Marina in which I’d arrived with Ed and Glory, sat a grubby white van that had clearly seen better days – lots of them. Someone had written ‘Clean me for Pete’s sake!’ on one side and ‘Kilroy wouldn’t even dream of it!’ on the other. However, when Ed unlocked and slid back the side door, we climbed into an immaculately roomy interior with two rows of comfortable, high-backed, deep brown leather bench seating, ranged behind the bucket seats of the driver and front-seat passenger. It had that unmistakably delightful brand-new vehicle smell. Ruth was amused at my expression,
“Unobtrusive doesn’t necessarily mean uncomfortable.” She pointed out.
Ed having opened the back door and ushered Hamlet up inside – a somewhat hefty arrival which caused the van to rock alarmingly – took the driving seat. Miss Peacock settled herself next to him, Glory and I sat in the next row with Ruth behind us. We were a somewhat ill-assorted group. Big Ed, concentrating now on re-angling the driving mirror was resplendent in a flannel, blue and white checked shirt, sleeves rolled up over meatily massive, hairless forearms. Drifting back from him was a whiff of lemon-scented after-shave, not dissimilar from his own fresh, tangy, signature-smell. He caught my eye in the mirror, as if it were easier to hold a gaze reflected than a direct one. I hoped he hadn’t caught my swiftly smothered thought that if looks were anything to go by, I’d have expected sweaty over citrus. I looked away hastily as he released the handbrake and moved the van smoothly away.
Miss Peacock was as usual, white and grey, skirted, shirted and cardiganned but as a concession to the dubious warmth of the April afternoon had discarded a black raincoat and folded it neatly over the back of her seat. Ruth, when I glanced back, appeared to have fallen promptly asleep. She’d, in honour of the outing, donned a bilious orange, sleeveless top which, unfortunately, had a jacket to match. It wasn’t possible to look at her for too long without getting an after-image. Glory had dressed down, going with a long mauve shirt over black slacks, hair knotted at the nape of her neck. She’d restricted herself to a mere half inch or so of gold earring, nothing to speak of really and was, as always sitting carefully upright in the seat, no slouch our Glory. I couldn’t see the dog, but every now and then a gentle snore rose from the van’s nether regions, blending and harmonising with Ruth’s exhalations and the sound of the engine.
We drove for a while in silence although I could, if I listened, hear Buddy Greco – with Ed there really was no call for a car radio. Glory seemed lost in thought but I couldn’t wait all day and it wasn’t going to be that long a journey, I leaned over and poked her firmly in the ribs with my finger. She jumped,
“What?”
“Peter?”
She heaved a sigh,
“Can’t a person get any peace? Where’d we get to?”
The coming together of Peter an
d the Doctor was a match made in hell, a recipe for disaster. Adult ambition, ruthlessness and amorality meeting its match in a twelve year old boy. Peter had soared through the initial round of tests, nearly knocking the conducting member of staff off her chair with excitement at his scores. The Doctor and Miss Merry were notified and hastened to one of the two-way mirrored rooms to watch, while Peter obligingly completed more tests. His power was raw and uncontrolled but there was no doubting its strength. Glory, listening in cautiously from a distance, could feel it peaking and subsiding, reaching beyond the glass to the other room where the two adults were standing, and she could feel his amusement that they thought they could spy on him without him knowing.
Sidling in a few moments later, beaming with delight and tailed by Miss Merry who didn’t really do beaming, the Doctor, at his oiliest oozed into a chair across the table from Peter. He would he said, like to invite him, with of course the permission of his parents to stay on at the clinic for a while longer to participate in further tests. Peter didn’t let him get very far before he put him straight on several things including his awareness of what they were after, the naffness of these tests for someone of Peter’s ability and the stupidity of hiding behind a two-way mirror. He suggested the Doctor and his happy clappy friend there, cut the crap and tell him what this was really all about. If Miss Merry didn’t do beaming, Peter didn’t do subtle.
He stated he was fully prepared to take part in whatever experiments were necessary, as long as they didn’t hurt and on condition they’d help develop his talents to their fullest extent. There were also some other things he’d like which he’d get to later – Glory was amused, despite herself to see that in his mental list of priorities, a regular supply of Coca Cola came just after pots of money – he was, after all, only twelve. He was not, he stated baldly, thumping the table for emphasis, a gesture he’d seen and fancied on Z Cars, but never had the opportunity to practise before, under any circumstances prepared to be pissed about, but if the Doc played fair with him, he’d play fair back.
The Doctor, if a trifle taken aback at the ease with which the boy had assimilated the situation, not to mention his use of the vernacular, agreed and Miss Merry was despatched post haste to obtain Peter’s mother’s permission for him to enter the clinic for a few days and to ease any parental concerns. It transpired that Peter’s mother, by this stage in fond and frenzied pursuit of husband number two, wasn’t concerned in the slightest. In fact lately the boy had been giving her the creeps. He seemed to know what she was going to say before she did herself and certainly couldn’t be counted on to give a good impression to her gentleman caller. Yes, yes, she agreed, anxious to get Miss Merry off the phone, she’d certainly inform the school and yes indeed, a call in a few days from the clinic to let her know how Peter was getting on, would be nice – if she wasn’t in, perhaps they’d just leave a message with the au pair.
There were no school pals of whom Peter wanted to take a fond farewell and truth to tell no-one seemed to notice he didn’t join them for lunch that day. If anything, his supervising teachers seemed mightily relieved to be told by Miss Merry of the new arrangement. Peter was escorted through to the clinic, where he was given into the hands of the capable Mrs Millsop with instruction to give him a full physical and, in the interests of not letting grass grow under anybody’s feet, his first dose of L/24. Glory didn’t try to make direct contact with Peter again. She’d told him what was what, choices he made subsequently were his. She was however aware of the need now to shield herself more than ever. She didn’t think she’d given anything away – as far as Peter was concerned, the words of warning could have come from anyone, but better play safe than sorry.
Whether L/24 had a different effect on Peter than it would have had on someone else is a matter for conjecture. Everyone has different reactions to even fully standardised and tested medications and if there was anything to be said about what the Doctor was producing, un-standardised and un-tested about summed it up. Glory, whose toilet had in the last several months, carried more pills than Boots the Chemist, was vastly relieved she’d never taken it even once.
She had though, smuggled a sample of L/24 to the Peacocks for analysis. The report had been rushed through and delivered back personally by a research scientist associate of theirs. He didn’t know, he said, nor did he want to, where they’d obtained the sample they’d given him but he couldn’t even begin to conjecture what such a drug combination could have been developed to treat. Two of its components, a powerful hallucinogenic stimulant and a strong muscle relaxant would appear to act against each other and a third was currently banned from use, pending investigation into untoward side-effects. He would, he added, eat his hat with mustard on it if this ever came anywhere near being granted a licence by the authorities. The Peacocks thanked him, sent him home with one of Ed’s fresh-from–the-oven strudels, and forebore to share that the drug in question had, in fact, been developed in a Government funded laboratory.
As was only to be expected, Glory was called in at an early stage to work with Peter but she was prepared and cautious. She’d now had an opportunity to study him a little and knew that although he had perhaps the strongest potential of any of the kids she’d come across, he actually wasn’t that bright – which made him all the more dangerous. She was also delighted to read that although he did remember the brief contact when he first arrived, he put it down as another of the tests they were using, to see who registered anywhere on the psi scale.
When she was led into the room in which they were to do some supervised tests together, he automatically scanned her but unable to by-pass her shielding was not interested enough to try harder. He thought of her dismissively as the black, blind bint. He was told that, like him, she’d demonstrated psi abilities but as, during the tests they were called upon to do, her performance was consistently disappointing and low-scoring, she obviously wasn’t in his league so he was unbothered. The Doctor, on the other hand, was very bothered as well as disappointed and frustrated by the lack of effect his pet pill was having on Glory. The conclusion could only be that her talents lay in one direction and one direction only – she was simply an excellent diviner of other people’s abilities.
*
Within the first few days and with each successive drug dose, the effects on Peter became more evident. Whether this was genuine enhancement as a result of the pills or a question of barriers being broken and inhibitions released, Glory wasn’t sure. She knew only that she could sense him from wherever she happened to be in the building and with every increment in Peter’s power, her apprehension grew apace. She could see all too clearly what the Doctor, in a high old state of excitement now, clearly could not. The daily drug dose was increasing the power but not the ability, nor the intellect to govern it. It was putting a loaded gun into the hands of an emotionally unstable twelve year old and saying, there now, show us what you can do with this.
Some results were predictable, others not so much. Peter was having his lunch one day when Miss Merry entered the room. Quick as a flash, his plate with mashed potatoes – he’d asked for chips and they’d sent him bloody mash and green beans, how many times did he have to tell them he didn’t do vegetables – flew swift as a bird through the air, turned a leisurely 90 degrees and landed on her hair, with remarkably little spillage. Twelve year old humour?
On another occasion, one of the psychology students drafted in as testers, twenty-two year old Polly, who’d once told Glory if she heard one more kettle joke she might commit murder, was doing Peter’s daily update. As Polly gathered her notes and stood to leave, Peter, from the other side of the room where he was lounging, feet on table, blowing pinkly fat gum bubbles ripped her shirt from throat to waist and giggled. Polly was livid, less concerned that her white Playtex Cross Your Heart bra was on display than that she’d paid good money at M&S for the non-iron shirt only last week. Twelve year old lust?
Two weeks to the day that Peter began participation in the re
sidential programme at Newcombe, all the lab rats were found dead. Exploded in their cages. Eighty or so of them. The mess was unspeakable, the devastation of Sid and Reg total. Twelve year old spite? And not slow to boast about it!
*
A small but urgent meeting was convened. The Doctor, Miss Merry – mash and beans gone but not forgotten or forgiven, Mrs Millsop – capped and formidable in blue and white starch and Glory. The meeting took place in one of the outside Portakabins coincidentally, although no-one mentioned it, on the opposite side of the building and at the farthest point from Peter’s quarters. The agenda was Peter’s progress, the hidden agenda far more complicated. Glory as usual was dealing with both.
The Doctor knew things were moving a little too fast, phrases like tiger by the tail, kept floating in and out of a mind made less opaque today by his agitation. But whilst the saner side of him argued caution and a slow approach, the side where the Nobel Prize was regularly buffed up was screaming go, go, go.
Relatively Strange Page 20
