Morpho

by Philip Palmer

  ‘But you possess its body and destroy its mind. That’s the same as killing it.’

  ‘Not so. I am still me,’ said Jane. ‘Someone, somewhere, hatched an egg in the vicinity of my baby self and that’s how I have these powers. But I’m still me. I’m still human. Don’t believe the lies these people tell. We do not kill babies. We improve babies.’

  ‘Babykillers,’ muttered Gwendolyn absently. ‘Monsters, all of you.’ Clearly that thought gave her some comfort.

  ‘It’s full,’ Jane said.

  Gwendolyn closed the catheter on Jane’s arm. She sealed the vial of fresh blood and labelled it with today’s date. Then she reconnected Jane to a new bottle.

  ‘You should drink it fresh,’ Jane said slyly. ‘It’s nicer that way.’

  ‘Dangerous,’ Gwendolyn reproved. ‘Blood has to age.’

  ‘More exciting,’ Jane goaded. ‘Your husband likes it fresh. Sometimes he stabs my breasts and drinks from me as if he was my baby.’

  ‘Don’t be preposterous.’

  ‘It’s an aphrodisiac,’ Jane explained. ‘Did you not know? The men go crazy for it. Old blood makes you live forever. But new blood, that’s a different kind of buzz entirely.’

  Gwendolyn was frozen with disbelief.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, child,’ said Gwendolyn in her haughtiest tones..

  ‘There’s still juice in this flesh,’ Jane Carter told her, as she hung from dislocated arms, her skeleton-thin body pale, her skin wafery, her eyes glaring out of deep sockets from a face that bore no expression. ‘Or so your husband tells me.’

  ‘What kind of eggs?’ Hayley asked.

  ‘Scrambled.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘How many sausages?’

  ‘Oh, um. Two. No three.’

  ‘You can have four.’

  ‘Four then.’

  ‘Bacon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hash browns, and how many?’

  ‘Yes and two.

  ‘Tomatoes and beans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Black pudding?’

  ‘No.’

  Hayley wrote the order down in her notepad, because she knew it annoyed people that she was able to memorise her orders so effortlessly.

  She walked back to the counter and shouted: ‘English breakfast three eggs scrambled four sausages two hash browns tomatoes beans no black pudding,’ then ripped the order off the page and handed it to Lily to give to the chef. Mama Jones handed her a mug of tea from the infinity teapot on the stove, the one that got topped up all day long, seemingly without Mama ever changing the tea leaves.

  ‘Thanks, Mama.’

  ‘Good girl, Mary.’

  Hayley took the tea to the customer. She took note of the four workmen in hi-vis vests who she guessed were digging up the road down the street. Two students earnestly discoursing, nursing hangovers. A couple of off duty coppers who never paid for their breakfasts even though that was strictly against regs these days. A guy with wire framed glasses who looked as if he’d meant to go in Costa’s but couldn’t find it.

  ‘You ready to order?’ she asked the students.

  ‘Bacon sandwich for me. And a tea.’

  ‘Tea and a tofu salad.’

  ‘We don’t do tofu.’

  ‘Do you do salad?’

  ‘We do bacon sandwich sausage sandwich coronation chicken sandwich barbecue chicken sandwich plain chicken sandwich full English Breakfast or Jamaican patties and everything else on the board. We do not do tofu.’

  ‘No need to get shirty.’

  ‘I wasn’t getting shirty,’ said Hayley, shirtily.

  Mama ambled up. ‘You want a salad? We can do a salad. What’s tofu?’

  ‘It’s a kind of –’

  ‘I know what it is.’ Mama laughed. It was a deep laugh, as if a man were hiding in the recesses of her large body. ‘Never tell the customer no, my lovely. We got all the –’

  The door opened and trouble walked in. Two men and a woman in suits and Border Patrol orange vests.

  ‘Take a seat gentlemen, madam,’ Mama boomed.

  ‘Are you Myfanwy Jones?’ the sandy-haired one asked.

  ‘I am,’ said Mama proudly. It was a name she had adopted after hearing the song, even though she was born in the Caribbean and christened ‘Belinda’.

  ‘We need to interview all your staff, and we need four forms of ID and we will be doing biometric tests, as per the –’

  ‘We’re busy now, come back another day.’

  ‘We have authorisation –’

  ‘All right all right. All me staff are busy. Are you busy, Mary?’

  ‘I was just about to clock off,’ Hayley said and Mama’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Off you go then.’

  ‘You need to do a biometric –’

  ‘Yes but I have a hospital –’

  ‘No one leaves, ‘the man said firmly. ‘Those are the rules.’

  Hayley shrugged.

  ‘Four forms of identification? I don’t have four forms of identification.’

  ‘You have three days to produce –’

  ‘Ah, such foolishness,’ said Mama. For the first time since Hayley had known her, she saw Mama’s spirit ebb. All these years living in a wet and irritable land, serving teas and cooked breakfasts for generation upon generation of South Londoners – and this was her reward?

  ‘You first,’ the man said to Hayley. A fingerprint box was produced and placed on a table. The cafe became a border control station. Hayley felt weary. This wasn’t right.

  ‘I need to go to the loo,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Now!’

  ‘I’m bursting.’

  ‘Don’t think you can run out the back way. ID, then fingerprints, then retinal –’

  Hayley spat at him. The spit caught him smack in the face and spread over his skin like ice on glass. Then it boiled. He was stunned for a moment then he screamed. Steam billowed from his face. Hayley let the saliva cool and fall away. She didn’t want to hurt him.

  Hayley jumped up on a table with one leap. She bounced from table to table, avoiding the plates and the tea mugs, then threw herself through the window. She gave herself a big kick off the final table to speed up her flight, but even so it was touch and go – for a moment she was afraid she would bounce off the glass like a cartoon cat.

  But instead she flew right through, head first. She landed on the pavement outside in a flurry of blood and broken glass. Her face was bleeding profusely. Her arm was broken. She stood up and saw a second Border Patrol team in a parked car. She ran away, very fast.

  That night she and Billy left London and began a long walk along country paths, travelling only at night. Hayley’s broken arm healed on the way. She never saw Mama again and never found out what happened to her.

  It’s like watching a dog trying to play the piano.

  Bug bug bug bug bug bug bug bug!

  God is Love. The Lord Thy God is Human. Thou shalt worship the Lord Thy God with every atom of thy being, but do not think thou hast a soul, for thou art naught but wicked vermin.

  Servants serve, never forget that. You are a servant.

  You think you are my friend! Don’t make me laugh. Can a toenail be a friend?

  Just do what I tell you and don’t try and be clever. You cannot be clever, you stupid fucking virus.

  Harry Barraclough had always been a timid man. His wife used to josh him about how shy he was. She used to boss him about, then tell him off for being so easily bossed about. Lots of Yorkshire men are like that, they’re braggarts in the pub and poodles in their own home. And Harry does in fact believe that God is Love and that God is Human. And he accepts his place in the great Chain of Being, somewhere very near the bottom.

  But this bastard Smith is really getting to him. He’s the nastiest kind of public school git. Barraclough knows that Smith is older than he looks. But Smith looks young. He looks like a child. And to be constantly b
ossed about by a cheeky young nipper is more than Harry Barraclough can bear.

  Yet bear it he must.

  Marlowe was briefing the team. Smith, Henson, Brady, Evans, McGregor and Lloyd. Lloyd was the only human woman in the room. Barraclough and Jeanie Millican were the only Exters.

  ‘I thank you for your diligence. We may not approve of this new strategy but we have executed it to the best of our ability, and the wrath of God has descended upon Yorkshire,’ said Marlowe.

  All the licensed nests were being closed down and the residents were being housed in secure units. Jails, in effect. Those with protected jobs were being allowed to go to work but now had to wear electronic tags. Barraclough and Millican both had tags around their ankles, drilled in to the bone so they could not be removed.

  These were dark days for anyone who believed that Exters had a right to live in freedom and safety. But, or so it seemed, no one did.

  ‘There has,’ said Marlowe, ‘been little or no resistance, as we expected. But there are murmurings.’

  Barraclough knew of the murmurings. He said nothing.

  ‘There is talk that Billy Franco is a saviour, and his name has become a rallying point.’

  Barraclough knew this too. He said nothing.

  ‘He must be found. DS Smith?’

  ‘We believe Franco is with the woman, Hayley Bradley. We also believe that Hayley is in regular touch with her sister, Cheyney, perhaps by burner phone. So far we have not been able to intercept any messages.’

  ‘Then do what you must,’ said Marlowe.

  That was how Barraclough and Smith came to be parked up outside Cheyney’s new home. A big house in North Leeds, her husband was worth a bob or two. Surveillance teams ascertained that he had just left for work, which usually meant the pub. So Smith and Barraclough moved in. They went for the direct approach; they rang the front door bell.

  ‘DS Smith, DC Barraclough,’ said Barraclough, showing his warrant card. ‘Can we come in, Miss?’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘We have news about Hayley,’ lied Barraclough.

  Her face lit up. She was a pretty young woman. Barraclough had a bad feeling about this.

  ‘Let us in please, madam,’ Smith said brusquely, and she opened the door and in they trod.

  Paintings on the wall. Impressionist and Expressionist. Was that a Munch? Barraclough liked paintings. He went to galleries sometimes.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ Cheyney asked.

  ‘No but we’ve heard she’s been recruited by Isis,’ said Smith brutally.

  Cheyney stared. ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘I’m serious. She’s been radicalised.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well she would have – she’s not the type.’

  ‘She would have what? Said something, last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘I haven’t – not since Hebden Bridge.’

  She was breathless. Defensive. That was the Smith effect for you.

  ‘That wasn’t a gas mains explosion, it was a bomb. A terror bomb,’ said Smith. ‘Your sister is a terrorist. How does she speak to you? Do you use burner phones? How does she know the number?’

  ‘I’m saying nowt,’ said Cheyney, determined.

  Smith punched her. It was a powerful blow and Cheyney fell and when she got up her nose was bloodied. But she was a fiery young woman and she faced Smith down.

  ‘You’re not fucking police at all, are you?’

  ‘We are, in fact.’ Smith smiled. ‘That’s the worrying thing, really, isn’t it?’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘Not until you give us the phone you used when you last spoke to your sister. You must have just the one burner. Hard enough to get one number to her, you can’t keep changing phones. Where is it? It’s not in your house.’

  A covert team had searched the house from top to bottom when Cheyney was at the dentist’s.

  ‘So where then?’

  ‘Do you know who my husband is? Do you know what he’ll do to you?’ Cheyney said spitefully.

  ‘Your husband is a criminal, do as we say or we’ll put him away for life,’ said Smith.

  ‘Go screw yourself.’

  Smith smiled.

  He truly was an unpleasant shit, Barraclough mused.

  ‘DC Barraclough, you know what you have to do.’

  ‘Yes sir. What, sir?’

  ‘Force a confession, of course.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Rape her first, maybe?’

  Cheyney flinched. She looked confused. He couldn’t be serious?

  ‘Yes sir.’ Barraclough took his jacket off.

  God is Love.

  Shit! He bloody means, it, thought Cheyney.

  ‘You can’t be – what the fuck –!’ she said.

  ‘Hurt her as much as you like. Humiliated women find it hard to stand mute, in my experience,’ said Smith, briskly.

  And what experience is that, sir? thought Barraclough.

  God is Human and we are vermin.

  You are daft as a brush, Harry Barraclough, but I never regret the day I married you.

  You should stand up for yourself more! Have some bloody backbone. Ah you bloody fool, Harry Barraclough!

  God is Love. And it is our duty to serve Him.

  ‘Get on with it,’ snapped Smith.

  ‘You dare – you touch me – I’ll fucking –’ Cheney squared up, fists raised. Barraclough guessed she had some martial arts training from her stance.

  ‘She’s a bit feisty, sir, I thought I’d taser her first.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Barraclough took out his taser. It was better than police issue, it fired five electrodes at once and delivered a dangerously powerful electric charge.

  Barraclough tasered Smith.

  It was point blank range, all five electrodes engaged and Smith fell like a stunned cow. His body shuddered and puke spilled out of his mouth. Barraclough looked at Cheyney and –

  And Smith recovered with astonishing speed and lunged to his feet and elbow-struck Barraclough, making him drop the taser. Then, before Barraclough could pause for breath, Smith took his baton out and shook it and a long blade emerged. He stabbed at Barrarclough.

  Barraclough dodged with dazzling speed but the blade slashed his face and arms and gouts of blood flew into the air.

  Remember Hebden Bridge.

  Smith struck at Barraclough’s throat and Barraclough ducked and spun and was behind him.

  Remember Hebden Bridge.

  Barraclough took out his own crossed-bar baton but Smith spun around and head butted him and buried the blade of his knife-baton in Barraclough’s throat. An artery was burst and a spray of blood reddened the air.

  Remember Hebden Bridge.

  Barraclough had been astonished when he surveyed the scene, as part of the clean-up team. It had been a massacre. Warriors in full body armour had been gunned down with invisible missiles. No one could explain what had happened. Exters are not violent, they have no natural weapons, and they are afraid to use guns. Billy Franco should not have been able to fight back and he should not have been able to kill all those people.

  Now, fighting for his life, Barraclough’s mind was racing and that made time slow down. He saw the cloud of blood from his burst artery in mid-air and realised that for the next few moments it was still his blood, his flesh. So he connected with it, he felt it. He controlled it.

  He made the blood swarm like bees and then made the swarm fly across the room and then made it land on Smith’s face like a mask. And then Barraclough made his own blood boil.

  Smith’s screams were stifled by the mask of blood that bubbled upon his face. He fell to his knees. The bubbling blood was mashed up now with his own blood and skin.

  Barraclough reached out a hand to Cheyney. She stared blankly. ‘We have to go,’ he said, calmly.

  Smith was still screaming. Barraclough guessed he was blind
by this point. The blood continued to boil away until Barraclough was out of the front door, then suddenly he lost contact with it. But the damage was done.

  Barraclough took out his keys and nodded at the CID car. ‘Hop in,’ he said.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Cheyney.

  ‘We have to run. We need somewhere to hide. Will Liam help us?’

  ‘Jesus! What the hell are you?’

  ‘Alien.’

  She took a moment, but no more than that. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Liam?’

  Cheyney nodded, still dazed.

  ‘Get in,’ said Barraclough gently.

  God is Love.

  From Brixton, Hayley and Billy fled south to Hastings. They checked into a B&B, paying cash for everything. Behaving like illicit lovers, with lots of giggling and holding hands, to explain their refusal to use a bank card. Hayley had bought a laptop with Liam’s money and they used Google to track strange events across the nation.

  Billy had access to a darknet address where Exters posted gossip and news and this site had a new feature called YOU ARE NOT ALONE. There they found information about Exter nests disrupted or destroyed, couched in the coyest language.

  Our friends in Roath in Cardiff have itchy feet and are no longer at that address. Our blessings go with them. Remember, God is Love.

  The ‘God is Love’ mantra was part of the Exter brainwashing, Hayley had discovered. Billy was not religious but even he became docile and brainless when he heard the words God is Love.

  Billy and Hayley had quarrelled often about this. ‘You people choose to enslave yourselves. There are more of you than them! Fight back! Or at least, run away!’

  ‘We cannot fight back. We cannot run away.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Jane did. She was not like others of our kind.’

  No, Hayley realised – because she was pregnant.

  ‘You fought at Hebden Bridge.’

  Billy shook his head. Baffled at his own rage that night.

  ‘Never before have I killed humans. Never before have I –’

  ‘You did it for me. To save me.’

  Yes, he did.

  A father’s love. More powerful, it seems, than God is Love.

  They walked along the seafront most days. They ate in seaside cafes. They had fish and chips every lunchtime. Hayley discovered she could drink a bottle of wine at a sitting without getting remotely drunk and Billy told her she would never get cirrhosis. But there is only so much booze you can drink in a day.