Agent of Equilibrium

by N. J. Mercer

  “Yes, it’s okay,” she replied pleasantly.

  “I’m not from the country really, been a townie my whole life. I do love it out here, and finding a place like yours, well, it’s a real gem.”

  “Being here almost every day one just doesn’t see it in that way. I expect it’s nice enough.”

  Johnny continued to look at her carefully; he could not help feeling that it was him who was being scrutinised.

  “So where are you from?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m from London, north-westish. Do you know London at all?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied. “Are you on holiday here?”

  “Not really.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Mrs McGuiness, I’m here because I am actually looking for somebody.”

  Mavis McGuiness’s face remained impassive and she continued to look him in the eye.

  “Who are you looking for?” she asked, as if she knew the answer already.

  “I understand Louise Croft was a friend of yours. She had a daughter, Rachel. I’m looking for her, it’s important.”

  At the mention of Louise, Johnny detected an intense sadness in Mrs McGuiness’s aura; it would have been impossible to know this without his gift of psychic perception because she did not overtly display any emotion – not even a blink – when he spoke the name. She seemed very defensive.

  “Who are you?” she asked, stony-faced.

  Johnny had his story prepared. “Do you know Martin?” Johnny asked nervously. His link to Louise and Rachel rested on his connection with Martin; he had no idea what she thought of Martin or if she even knew him. On observation, she appeared unmoved by the mention of this name; psychically, Johnny could sense positive feelings.

  “How do you know Martin?” she asked sternly.

  “He’s a friend,” replied Johnny, starting to feel edgy. The initially welcoming atmosphere was becoming distinctly colder.

  “Why do you want the girl?” she asked. The tables had been turned, and it was the old woman who was interrogating the young stranger.

  “Martin asked me to find her, to make sure she’s all right.”

  “Why should she not be all right?”

  “Martin was concerned about the suitability of her foster parents. He felt Rachel wasn’t entirely safe living with his sister and her husband. He disappeared before he could give me any more information. Will you help me find her?” Johnny asked.

  “No, I can’t help you, goodbye,” Mavis McGuiness said curtly, turning around back to her shelves.

  Johnny was annoyed; he wanted the information he had come for. There was too much at stake, the Disciples of Disorder had to be prevented from upsetting the equilibrium. There existed a psychic phenomenon called the mind probe in which the psychic practitioner hijacked the brain of the subject and leafed through its memories as if he were reading a book. The problem was that by doing this the subject was often left brain-damaged and suffered symptoms of epilepsy, schizophrenia and a whole host of other neuropsychiatric pathologies for the rest of their life. There were even instances that had resulted in death. Johnny was familiar with the theory and knew how it could be done. He had never attempted one before … Could this be his first time? He promptly admonished himself for even considering inflicting such a cruelty upon the dear old lady, especially as he had not laid all his cards upon the table yet.

  “Mrs McGuiness, Martin is a good man, he is concerned about Rachel’s well-being and so am I—”

  “Where is Martin?” she interrupted.

  “I don’t know for certain. My friends and I are pretty sure he is in trouble. We have good reason to believe that Rachel’s foster parents are dangerous people, too influential around here for Martin to even go to the police – that’s why I am helping. I won’t let Martin down. There is so much at stake, beyond even Rachel’s well-being, so please tell me where I can find her. Believe me, if anyone is going to sort this mess out it’s me with my friends.” Johnny spoke with a sincerity that was not lost on Mavis McGuiness. He noticed the icy atmosphere thaw and her dour expression soften. The kindly face that had greeted him when he first entered the shop was regarding him once again – it was up to the old lady now.

  Mavis McGuiness walked over to the front door of her shop and replaced the ‘Open’ notice that hung there with one that read: CLOSED, BACK IN 15 MIN. Looking outside she saw the motorhome.

  “Is there anybody in there?” she asked.

  “Yes, my friend. He’s in this with me,” Johnny replied, still unsure if he had managed to get through to her.

  “Call him in if you like, he may be interested in what I have to tell you,” she said, then turned to Johnny. “The last thing I wanted was more disruption in my dear Rachel’s life, especially from a stranger, but there’s something different about you.”

  Johnny smiled at her, she smiled back, and he went to fetch Sascha.

  Chapter 16

  Martin longingly watched the way her fine brown hair caressed her shoulders as she walked through the crowd and drifted further away from him. The subtle smell of her sweet perfume was like a trail that guided him through the throng. He tried to push and jostle his way through the gathered mass of humanity while she, on the other hand, moved through them effortlessly. More than once he thought he had lost her amongst the sea of bobbing heads, only to catch sight of her again and find that she was a little further away. Intent on catching up with the alluring figure, he fought his way through the sea of people; just when he thought he had made some progress he was forced back again by the dense crowd, all of whom seemed oblivious to his struggles no matter how much he tried to shove them out of the way. In frustration, he called out to her and stretched his arm above the multitude so she might see him.

  “Louise!” he shouted over the many heads. She turned and fixed him with a look from dark, sensual eyes; he was elated. She heard me! he thought. She even smiled and beckoned him to follow before turning around to glide through the crowd.

  “Louise!” Martin shouted again; this time, she did not look back.

  Every foot of space in the narrow streets seemed to be full of people and Martin forced his way through them. Where am I? he asked himself and took his eyes off Louise to identify the location. It was Hilvern, the village where she lived; he had been here many times before and never seen it so full of people. Who are they? What are they doing here? He did not know. He pressed on; she was further away now so he doubled his efforts and pushed frantically through the mob, desperate to reach her. A tall man’s bald head obscured his view for an instant and when it moved again, Louise was gone.

  He thought he had lost her; just as despair was about to set in he saw her again, standing in the doorway to a small bungalow, her home, away from the wretched crowd. “Louise!” he shouted and waved. She smiled, turned and walked into the building. He struggled all the way to the front door, and just before he went in he stood on its step to see exactly how far the crowd of people extended. It was impossible to say: all around him was the village, and every inch of every street was full of people. Martin shook his head in disbelief at the number of these aimless wanderers. He turned away from them all and entered the empty bungalow; the front door swung gently shut behind him of its own accord.

  Inside it was dark and the place was devoid of any furniture or decoration. The walls, ceilings and floorboards of the small entrance hall looked old and musty. The bare interior possessed a distinct absence of colour due to the layers of dust and cobwebs that covered every surface. Outside, it was a bright, beautiful day; indoors, very little illumination seemed able to penetrate the gloom. The light that managed to make its way into the bungalow was made visible by the motes of dust that hung thickly in the air. He had not been here for two years. Could it have been abandoned all that time?

  There were four doors, only one of them was open, just a crack. He saw a shadow interrupt the light that came from it, and he heard footsteps. The dust and cobw
ebs on the floor seemed not to have been disturbed by Louise’s passage. He pushed open the door and entered slowly. His heart beat quicker, knowing that they would be together again. Light beaming brilliantly through a large window in the far wall dazzled him. Despite the exposed floorboards and plain plastered wall, the intense brightness of this room was in stark contrast to the grey gloom of the rest of the house. There was no dust or grime here. He only noticed this fleetingly because his eyes were fixed on Louise. She was lying stretched out across a four-poster bed that sat in the middle of the room, its fresh silk sheets and lace awning a brilliant white that glowed as it reflected light from the window. He had been in this room many times, it had always been Louise’s bedroom; it had never looked like this before. It used to be carpeted and full of furniture, and the bed had been a normal, comfortable double bed, not the exotic four-poster affair before him. She looked more beautiful than ever lying there in her long, silk slip; finally, he had caught up with her.

  “Louise…” he whispered. He had missed her so much. She smiled at him, a perfect smile, the skin of her face and arms flawless, her dark eyes as hypnotic as ever. She patted the bed and beckoned Martin to lie with her. Louise was more special to him than all of the women he had ever known and cared for. He felt so different around her, so much better. All this time, he thought she had gone and that he would never again be able to experience that feeling of being whole which he only knew when he was with her.

  He sat on the bed, wanting to hold her then and there. He chose to restrain himself, just to savour the moment. He drank in her features then reached out to touch the strands of soft hair that lay on the pillow. He had missed her so much.

  “Louise, don’t ever go away again. I love you,” said Martin, and she moved closer to embrace him. Martin wanted to hold her again more than anything in the world; he leaned over, the subtle rose scent that hung about her engulfed him, and he breathed it in deeply as if he were inhaling a drug. Finally, she was in his arms. “I missed you so much, Louise,” he said as he held her. He felt the soft skin of her face against his and closed his eyes to revel in the sense of touch.

  Suddenly there was a strange sound, a wet popping that was entirely unexpected. It was followed by confusion; something had happened. He tried to scream at what lay beneath him; no sound came out, the revulsion and horror he felt at that moment was paralysing. Louise’s face was turned limply to one side, and her slip was soaked red with blood. Some unknown force had caused her body to implode into a bloody mixture of bones and internal organs. Martin recoiled in terror. His hands, his clothes and the bed were all covered in dark red. His mind and body froze, and he struggled to breathe. His desperate efforts to move away from the remains of his lover caused her head to roll over the side of the bed where it dangled, suspended inches above the floor by a single sinuous strand of tendon from her neck. He lurched backwards and fell. Finally, he managed to scream and did not stop until he awoke from the nightmare.

  Martin lay in darkness on the hard floor of his cell, shivering; the air around him felt damp and very still. He had been slipping in and out of consciousness for a while and did not know what time it was or whether it was even day or night. He grimaced as he recollected the strange, disturbing dream. He reached out with one hand to feel his right leg; it remained limp. There was no longer any blood oozing from the self-inflicted wound – someone had seen to his injury and that worried him.

  Having been left on his back for some time on the hard floor, numbness had gripped parts of his body. It wasn’t all bad news, lying there with the wound closed had given him a chance to rest and he felt fractionally stronger. Martin used his hands to grope around and learn something about his current location. First he felt an uneven cobbled stone surface beneath him; he stretched further, and at the very end of his reach there was a wall which felt smooth and cold. No daylight, a cobbled surface and smooth walls – he had a good idea where he was now – it was not far from where he had been caught. He tried to sit up; the right side of his body, the side with the injured leg, refused to comply with his wishes. He shifted his weight to the left elbow and pushed up from the floor; the effort made him dizzy, his arm gave way and he collapsed. Lying there, he waited to see what would become of him. His destiny was no longer in his hands.

  It was after some time that he became aware of a strange pulsing vibration from the floor beneath him and was unsure whether it had been there all along. He concentrated on this strange phenomenon until his bored mind started to wander, and he found himself thinking about the alarming events that had made him a prisoner here. He remembered Peter Pike’s screams and the tentacles from beneath the ground. The fear and agony on his friend’s face was all too clear in his mind, and he despised himself for dragging someone along to meet such a terrible demise. What was beneath the ground? he wondered. Surely, Edward Devilliers had gone too far now, he was summoning beings that had no place on Earth. To use such beasts as his tools made him a very powerful individual, more powerful than Martin had calculated; he lay there horrified at the thought. Even in this weakened state, disabled and on the brink of death, he tried to think of ways to stop Devilliers. Ideas came aplenty; however, without the physical strength to execute any of them, the helpless reality of his situation was made far too apparent. When despair drifted into his soul, he pushed it away defiantly because there was hope. The man he had spoken to, Boyd Tennant, sounded like he could help; he was still out there. Would he forget about everything and walk away after their failed meeting? No! No way! He seemed like an honourable man, he knew what was going on, he would help. Then there was Rachel, she was a plucky girl just like her mother. Surely, when he hadn’t turned up she would have taken the initiative to do something herself? Rachel would know what to do. Martin lay there with no real evidence to support these hopes, but hanging on to the idea of Rachel and Boyd somehow defying the Disciples was all he could do.

  Chapter 17

  Sascha locked the motorhome and followed Johnny to the shop; both were eager to hear what Mrs McGuiness had to say and hoped she could cast some light on whatever they were heading into. Once inside, the old woman secured the front door and ushered the pair behind the till into a storeroom filled with cardboard boxes, food and sacks of farm produce. The three of them walked past these supplies, through an open door in the back and outside again into a small courtyard surrounded by farm buildings. They followed the old lady into a cottage that adjoined the shop and found themselves in a small, rustic kitchen. There was a vase of flowers on the windowsill and along the counters stood jars of tea and coffee, biscuit tins, cakes, a bread-bin and a choice of teapots. An Aga gave off a cosy warmth. It would have been the perfect place to relax over a hot drink and put worries to one side; Johnny, however, remained alert to an ambush from the Disciples, even here.

  Mrs McGuiness invited her guests to take a seat at the small, square breakfast table. Johnny couldn’t help smiling at the ceramic salt and pepper shakers in the shape of a comical fat farmer and his wife that stood at the centre of the multi-coloured cotton tablecloth, surrounded by doilies. Mrs McGuiness was already heating up the kettle when she asked them if they would like tea or coffee. Johnny and Sascha both requested tea; it just seemed like the most appropriate choice for this kitchen. As the kettle boiled, she put a plate of biscuits on the table for her guests to enjoy. A genial host, thought Johnny, how old-fashioned. Mrs McGuiness brought over a tray with a steaming teapot beneath a red tea cosy surrounded by tea-drinking paraphernalia. She took the only remaining seat for herself and asked the pair how they wanted their drinks before pouring from the great pot, smiling as she did so, enjoying the task. When she had finished there was sadness again, and she gazed wistfully down at her own cup before starting to speak.

  “I knew that one day somebody would come here asking about Rachel. I always thought it might have been the police or maybe those social services people. Whoever it was, I knew somebody would come – and here you are.” She looked
up from her tea to face Johnny and Sascha. “So you think she’s in trouble. I’ll tell you where she is. When you find her be gentle with her, she’s had a hard life. Do you know much about her?”

  “I`m afraid not,” Johnny said, pursing his lips and shrugging his shoulders.

  “Not really,” mumbled Sascha.

  “If you want to help then you need to know a little about her background first so please listen to me. I always intended on telling this story to anybody who could really do something about it, not like the police and others. I’m getting tired of carrying it everywhere and need to unload some of this burden. There’s something about you two I feel I can trust.”

  Johnny anticipated that he and Sascha were going to obtain some useful information that would add some flesh to the bones of this case. Mavis McGuiness took a few sips of her tea; Johnny sensed a deep melancholy in her as she commenced her tale.

  “Louise Croft, Rachel’s mother, was from a rural highland family whose past generations had made a living by working the land, rather like my own. As a child, Louise moved with her parents to the city. They were one of the many who broke away from a tradition of country living to relocate. They never really had an alternative; the rural life was getting hard and money was scarce. They moved with young Louise to Glasgow, where they made their home, and it was in the city’s factories where they found work. The couple settled in a rough area; it was the best they could do. I don’t think Louise ever thought much of her new home in the inner city and grew disillusioned with it quite early on.

  “Years later she met her ex-husband, Steven, while they were both still young; he was bad news, a lazy good-for-nothing. They connected somehow, and together they had the rather impetuous idea of starting a family. Rachel was born while they were still unmarried. As you can imagine, it was actually Louise’s parents who shouldered much of the responsibility for bringing up the child. Rachel was very fond of her grandparents. Working in the factories and smoking meant they were both in poor health, and when Rachel was only a few years old, her grandfather, Louise’s father, died. By that time, Louise’s mother had to move to a nursing home. Her grandad’s death had a profound impact on young Rachel, she grew up very quickly then, an old head on young shoulders. Louise married Steven soon afterwards, hoping to find some stability in her life after her father passed away; unfortunately, her new husband never had it in his nature to settle down. He got bored easily and spent very little time at home. He had practically abandoned his wife and child; the unhappy couple divorced within a few years.