“Do you think the next time they remove one of those things,” Denny said carefully, “they'll be able to keep the victim alive?”
“Surgery is not my field,” Zoffany said slowly, not meeting Denny's eye. “But it could be that the amount of time that the symbiote is attached to a host determines how hard it is to remove. Blaisdell had been in the PD for a very long time. Your friend Frankie, by contrast, was only abducted a few weeks ago.”
“There's every reason to hope, Denny,” Gould said. “Time flows differently there, we know that much. So she's really been in the PD for a day or less.”
“But time is passing for her,” Denny said, “However slowly. I can't forget that.”
A couple of minutes later, Gould was escorting Denny down to the ground floor of the Romola Foundation's headquarters. Simply walking through the palatial building in central London never failed to impress Denny. She knew how high property values had become in the capital, and yet the foundation – supposedly an obscure scientific research charity – occupied a grandiose Victorian town house.
“So,” Denny asked. “It's been a while since we got away from Malpas Abbey. When do I get to meet the mysterious Mister Benson?”
Gould shrugged.
“Possibly never. He seldom talks to anyone outside his inner circle of scientists, money-men, and senior field operatives. Like me.”
“But the guy is offering me a permanent job with this outfit?” Denny persisted. “Because I can't go back to working in TV. I'll always be 'the woman whose colleagues were taken out by a serial killer'.”
The official police explanation for the 'Malpas Massacre', as the British press had dubbed it, was murder by an unknown person. Suspicion had fallen on the survivors, including Denny. But with zero forensic evidence and no motives, the investigation had stalled. The media, as usual, had enjoyed a brief feeding frenzy. But with none of the survivors willing to give interviews they, too, had moved on.
“Yes, you can have a job,” Gould said, showing her into his office. “But first there's a probationary period.”
Gould explained that all field operatives with the foundation had to undertake a basic investigation to prove their competence. As a professional journalist, Denny should not find going undercover and asking questions too difficult.
“I agree,” she said. “So what mission are you sending me on? Let me guess – a remote lighthouse on a rocky crag, where the keepers have a habit of disappearing on dark, stormy nights.”
Gould, who had seemed preoccupied all morning, managed to laugh at that.
“No, for two reasons,” he replied. “One, it's a massive cliché, and two, lighthouses are obsolete in these days of satellite navigation.”
He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a buff-colored folder.
“I'll email you all this, of course, but I thought you'd like hard copy,” he said, handing it over. “Basically, you have to go for a holiday in a nice little town about a hundred miles west of here. And while you're there, check out some local folklore.”
“Where is this town, exactly?” Denny asked.
“Machen – it's a small market town on the Welsh border.”
“Okay,” she said, opening the folder. “Why is it on the foundation's radar?”
“Could be a case of Impostor Syndrome,” said Gould. “Or maybe something strange has happened with local children.”
“Tell me more,” she said carefully. “Is it anything like – what happened with Lucy?”
“That's what struck me as interesting,” said Gould, his voice level.
“Okay, it's the only town in England without a war memorial. Because they never needed one. That is kind of weird, but–”
“You don't see how it relates to the Interlopers?” finished Gould. “Me neither, but it's an odd coincidence. Keep reading.”
Denny kept reading, and eventually came to a news item from a paper called ‘The Machen Advertiser’.
THREE LOCAL CHILDREN IN 'ABDUCTION PANIC'
At first, it seemed like a trivial matter – some kids had gotten lost in the woods, adults were concerned, then the children turned up safe and sound. Then she realized how closely it resembled the disappearance of Gould's sister, Lucy, decades earlier. The difference was that Lucy had not returned.
But something inhuman returned in her place.
One part of the news report struck her as significant. She read it aloud.
“'The brother of one of the girls was so traumatized by the incident that he has been given special counseling. According to a family friend he 'doesn't believe his sister is really his sister anymore'.”
When she looked up at Gould again, he nodded gravely.
“It might be nothing more than what it seems,” he said. “But given what we've both been through so far, Benson and I agree that it's well worth checking out.”
Denny closed the folder.
“Okay, I'll go undercover. You said something about lunch?”
“I did indeed,” said Gould, smiling. “There's a little Italian place near here that we have an account with. But before we go, one point about Machen. If Interlopers are involved and you get the chance to cross over again, don't take it.”
“But Frankie,” Denny began, only for Gould to hold up his hand.
“No,” he insisted. “I'm sorry, but any attempt to rescue your friend – or my sister – has to be done by a properly-equipped security team. If you don't feel you can abide by that policy–”
“I get it,” Denny said, resignedly. “No heroics, just check things out. Well, at least it'll be a break from Zoffany poking about in my mind.”
***
“Okay,” said Forster. “We've got three blokes on leave, and one down with food poisoning. You're up.”
Noel Barrett looked around the foyer of the Romola Foundation, half-expecting to see another security guard. But no, he was the only one on duty. Paul Forster, formerly of the Parachute Regiment and now head of security for the entire operation, wanted him.
“Yes, you,” Forster snapped, impatiently. “Come on. We're going down to the sub-basement.”
Barrett had heard about the sub-basement level at the Romola Foundation, but had never expected to see it. It was reserved for teams of scientists and personnel like Forster, who had top security clearance.
And now I'm being assigned there, he thought, with a mixture of pride and trepidation. This is the big time, Noel – don't screw it up.
Five minutes later, after taking the special elevator reserved for senior personnel, Forster led Barrett along a brightly-lit corridor. They stopped outside a cell door. The security chief had already issued Barrett with a taser to go with his usual telescopic baton. Now he stood aside and pointed at the door, which bore the number 101. There was a viewing slit in the door with a sliding cover. A utilitarian steel-framed chair stood by the door. Barrett's heart sank. He had seen chairs like that before, designed to make sure the person sitting on them never got comfortable enough to doze off.
“This door never opens, right?”
“Right, sir!” replied Barrett.
“You never open that slit to look inside, clear?” Forster went on.
“I'm not to open the slit, sir!”
“If you hear anything from inside that room, anything at all, you report using that phone,” Forster went on, gesturing at an internal telephone mounted on the wall. “You dial 222 and that gets me and a special squad down here pronto, get it?”
“Yes, sir!” said Barrett, resisting the urge to salute. Forster had that effect on him.
“You've got an eight-hour shift, Barrett. During that time, nobody goes into that room without my personal say so.”
“Understood sir,” said Barrett.
Christ, he thought, it's just guarding a friggin' door. How hard can it be?
Forster looked him up and down and gave a slight grunt.
“You're new to the foundation, son,” he said, in a gentler voice. “This is a bi
gger responsibility than you could possibly realize at the moment. If anything – and I mean anything – strikes you as in any way unusual, make that call. Get it?”
“I get it, chief! I won't let you down.”
Forster made another noncommittal noise, then stalked off saying nothing else. For the next three hours, Barrett struggled with a newspaper crossword. Eventually he gave up, re-read the football pages, and then started daydreaming. It was then, when his mind was unfocused, that he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
A veteran of tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, he instantly looked both ways, but the corridor was empty. At one end was a blank wall. At the other was a locked security door that could only be opened with a key card plus a numerical code.
No way anybody can be looking at me, he thought.
Yet he still felt the uneasy sensation. His instincts were telling him that he was being scrutinized. He had seen men ignore similar intuition and have their brains or guts blown out by snipers, or their bodies mutilated by IEDs.
But I'm in the heart of London, underground, behind half a dozen layers of top-quality security. I'm not on the front line.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the uneasy sensation vanished. Barrett shrugged, puzzled but not overly concerned, now. Men get the willies in difficult situations, he knew that.
No need to get spooked. It's just the mind playing tricks when it's got nothing to do.
Barrett picked up his newspaper and tried the crossword again. Frowning, he chewed the end of his biro as he struggled with the clues for several minutes. Then he stopped, dismayed at the mess he had made of the puzzle.
HELP ME.
He had filled in a six-letter answer with the words, and yet they did not fit the clue at all. He wondered where the phrase had come from. He scanned the rest of the crossword and realized that for the last few minutes he had been putting in a series of blatantly incorrect answers.
PRISONER.
AFRAID.
EXPERIMENT.
Some of his botched 'answers' did not even have the right number of letters.
“Idiot,” he said aloud, throwing the newspaper to the floor.
For a moment, he toyed with the idea of calling Forster, then dismissed the notion. He could imagine his boss's reply if Barrett tried to explain that his failure to complete a basic crossword was a strange occurrence. But as he sat staring at the white-painted wall of the corridor, Barrett found it impossible to stop thinking about the weird answers he had put down.
Subconscious, he thought. The subconscious mind at work. That's the explanation. So why did mine pick those particular words?
Barrett did not think of himself as particularly bright or imaginative. But as he sat stiffly upright on his uncomfortable chair, fragmentary images surfaced in his mind. They were unpleasant images. Some came from movies, some from news reports, others from books and magazines. But they had a common theme. Innocent people confined in cells. Men in uniform guarding them. Scientists taking out the prisoners to perform cruel experiments.
It was as if his mind was a still pond and someone had taken a stick to stir up all the mud at the bottom. He tried to think of positive things, of his girlfriend, the holiday they planned to take next summer. He was going to ask her to marry him, pick out a ring. But the bleak, terrible thoughts kept swirling up to blot out happy images. And along with the horrific images of torture and misery came questions.
Who is in that cell? What have they done to deserve it? What is going to happen to them?
Barrett had not dared ask Forster the obvious questions. After eight years in the army, he was used to obeying orders without question. But there was no way he was getting paid to guard an empty room. Forster had clearly implied that whoever was in there might kick up a fuss, maybe start shouting or banging on the door. Barrett knew the foundation's activities went into some legal gray areas. But until now, he had not pondered just how questionable its methods might be.
What am I a part of? Am I like one of those men in uniform who just obeyed orders?
No matter how much effort Barrett made to stifle the disturbing thoughts, he could not be free of them. He had to know. Slowly the guard stood up to look at the heavy steel door of the cell. At just below his head height there was the viewing slit. It was about the size of a letter box.
I'm not supposed to look inside. Orders are orders.
“But what if they're bad orders?” he murmured, and reached up to open the slit.
The interior of the cell was dimly lit, but it was possible to make out its occupant. He saw a small figure wearing pajamas, apparently asleep, on a low bed. It was obviously a child. Small bare feet were visible, while long dark hair covered the face. As Barrett watched the child turn over, he saw a girl's face, her eyes were closed. He guessed she was about seven, but it was hard to tell. Now, when she had moved, he noticed that one of her ankles was bound to a steel chain.
“Oh God,” he said, stepping back and slamming the slit shut. “Oh God.”
They're keeping a child prisoner, he thought. Experimenting on a child.
He felt a surge of anger, righteous indignation at a terrible injustice. No matter what the purpose, he could not let this stand. He thought of his girlfriend, of the children they were talking about having one day. Once more, images of past atrocities flooded his mind.
But how can I help her? I can't even open this door. If I could do that maybe I'd have a chance of getting her out of the building.
The phone rang, making him jump and look around guiltily. It rang twice more before he could focus enough to run over and answer it. It was Forster.
“Were you asleep, lad? What took you so long?”
“Sorry sir,” he replied, trying not to mask his confusion. “Just – just taking a walk up and down the corridor, otherwise I get–”
“Never mind,” interrupted Forster. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes sir,” said Barrett. “All quiet.”
“Okay then, listen carefully. In about half an hour I'm coming down to open that door so one of the scientists can access the room. She needs to do some tests. Don't ask why. It's been done before, and there have been no problems. Got it?”
“Yes, chief,” said Barrett. “I'll be ready for you.”
Chapter 2: Tricks of the Trade
“Okay!” said Zoffany brightly. “This last experiment is a bit way-out, but worth a try.”
“No more white noise?” Denny asked. “No more blinkers?”
“No, this is much simpler, I promise,” Zoffany replied, gesturing Denny to a low couch in the corner of the laboratory. “It's a form of hypnotic regression. Also, you can have a lie down after lunch.”
Oh great, thought Denny. Because I just love having my mind probed and poked.
Denny's uncertainty must have showed in her face.
“You don't have to do it,” Zoffany said. “I just thought it might help us understand just how much influence the Interlopers can exert over our minds.”
Denny nodded, and climbed onto the couch.
“So this is like in the movies?” she asked. “I lie back and you dangle a shiny object in front of my eyes?”
Zoffany gave a full-throated laugh, and Denny felt herself trusting the woman more.
“No, that's a bit old-fashioned,” the scientist assured her, as she closed the blinds, then sat by the couch. “All hypnosis really involves is relaxing someone to the point where their subconscious mind can be accessed. It's a lot like daydreaming.”
“Okay,” murmured Denny, trying to loosen up. “Relax me, doc.”
“Think of your good place,” suggested Zoffany. “Like a tropical beach. If that isn't too clichéd for you. Some people prefer mountains, or a forest, or–”
“Beach is just fine with me,” Denny said, closing her eyes. “Kind of disappointed you won't be dangling a watch, though.”
***
“Pleasant lunch?” asked Benson, as Gould entered the cha
irman's office.
“Very good,” Gould replied. “She accepted the Machen assignment.”
“Hmm,” said Benson. “You did stress the need to be discreet and not go charging in the way she did at Malpas?”
“I made that very clear,” Gould replied, sitting down opposite his boss. “Of course, that might just make her more likely to take risks.”
“Speaking of risks,” Benson said, “here is a little experiment I thought you would like to see.”
Benson operated a remote and the blinds closed, plunging the office into near darkness. At the same time, a large screen lit up, showing a monochrome video feed. Gould recognized it at once as security camera footage of the sub-basement level. In a corridor, a man in a dark uniform was sitting outside a large door.
“Is that – Cell 101?” Gould demanded. “Has something happened?”
“Movement,” Benson said. “Our guest finally emerged from her coma, or whatever it was, earlier today.”
Gould nodded thoughtfully as Benson flicked to another camera. Inside the cell, the Interloper was sitting up on the bed, staring at the door. Despite knowing that it was a monster that had killed several human beings Gould still felt his stomach lurch. The entity perfectly mimicked the appearance of a child. He had to struggle against his emotions not to see the creature as his long-lost sister.
“What's it doing?” he asked. “What is it staring at?”
“Doctor Zoffany and her team suspect that it is exerting some kind of psychic influence,” replied Benson. “But we are not sure how powerful the effect might be. Hence, our decision to put a somewhat naive and impressionable young man on watch outside. He's a new recruit. If I'm right, the drama is about to begin. Ah, yes.”
Benson switched views again. Now the security guard was rising from his chair as Forster and a female scientist walked up to him. There was a brief conversation, the guard nodded and took out a taser, then Forster opened the door.
Things happened very quickly after that. The guard shoved the taser into Forster's back. Forster jerked, puppet-like, then slumped against the wall. The white-coated woman began to retreat only for the guard to attack her, too. When the scientist was twitching on the floor, the guard bent to remove something from Forster's belt.
Nightmare Valley Page 3
