Prisoner of Fire

by Cooper, Edmund

  Denzil Ingram sounded utterly sincere. That was one of his great strengths. He could always make himself sound utterly sincere.

  There was no indication that he had already mentally signed death warrants for Jenny and Simon Pargetter. All he needed was a little time—enough time to take Vanessa out. Jenny Pargetter would give him that time because she believed him. And when Vanessa was dead, all would be well. The Pargetters could meet with a sad accident—with plenty of irreproachable witnesses—and then the case of Vanessa Smith would be closed for ever.

  Professor Raeder had gathered his little group together for a final briefing. He looked at them carefully. They did not look very formidable. In fact they looked ridiculously young, ridiculously stupid, ridiculously ineffectual and—in the case of Quasimodo—somewhat grotesque. But he also saw them as something else: as components of a great psychological machine of destruction; a machine that would destroy the government of the United Kingdom and give Professor Raeder the power he had craved for so long. There remained the problem of the missing component—the vital mechanism that would bring the machine to life. It would have to be obtained quickly.

  “So, my children, our campaign of terror has not yet yielded results. I do not entirely blame you, though I must confess to some disappointment. The interference did not help, of course. It came at a time when Vanessa lacked confidence in her powers to reject. Alas, it also reinforced her, renewed her determination to resist our onslaught.”

  He smiled benevolently. “Judging from the immediate effects on Quasimodo and Janine—which, I am happy to say, produced no permanent damage—the sender was emitting signals of quite exceptional strength. This leads me to conclude either that he possessed paranormal resources of unprecedented power, or that he had used one of the few booster drugs, possibly Amplia Nine. The latter is more probable. In which case, our interfering friend will live to regret his extravagance. However, this is beside the point.

  “Time, my young friends, is our enemy. Vanessa will not come to us. Therefore we must go to Vanessa. I will take Quasimodo and Janine. The rest of you will stay here. As we travel south, we shall take fixes. Telefixes are difficult but not impossible. I think we shall be able to ascertain where Vanessa is hiding. We already have impressions of hills and woodland and luxuriant countryside. A sea of bluebells was the last reported visual. I think it is important. Also, I have been able to chart Vanessa’s most probable route from Random Hill.”

  Professor Raeder paused. “To those of you who remain here, let me give a final word of warning. Do not try to escape. Being a person of some foresight, as you know, I have surrounded this house with buried proximity mines which can be activated or de-activated electronically. When I and Quasimodo and Janine take the hovercar south, I shall activate the mines. I would not recommend any of you to try to walk more than twenty metres from the house… You have ample stores of food, and I do not expect we shall be away very long. Alfred, you are in charge and accountable. You know how our defence system works; but you are not to use it without first consulting me through Janine or Quasimodo. One or the other will remain open to you most of the time. Incidentally, I will make routine contact with you once every three hours.

  “I ask no more than that you should behave sensibly for two, perhaps three days. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No, sir,” said Alfred dutifully.

  “So,” said Professor Raeder cheerfully. “We will now proceed to acquire our burning glass.”

  14

  THE MAN WHO had conditioned himself to become Oliver Anderson had driven back to his secluded cottage with a strange and satisfying sense of homecoming. The house had never felt like a home before. But now it did; and that was entirely due to the presence of Vanessa. She was the first person he had met about whom he cared not professionally but personally, deeply personally. He told himself that the age gap was too great. They were separated by nearly twenty years. It did not seem to matter.

  Did he regard her as a woman whom he might bed or as a child whom he might cherish? He did not know. He chose not to know. The disturbing fact of love was sufficient unto itself.

  It was late morning when he got back to the cottage. The tri-di he had bought was a small portable model with a built-in permanent atomic power source. The holopix it displayed lacked the high definition of a lounge tri-di; but that did not matter. The tri-di was simply a necessary window through which could be observed some, at least, of the discreetly exposed machinations of Sir Joseph Humboldt.

  Oliver had also bought a great deal of food not because he was anticipating any kind of siege or difficulty in obtaining further supplies but because he wished to leave Vanessa alone as little as possible.

  He was not greatly surprised by her absence upon his return. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, the air was warm. He was glad that she was out in the woods enjoying an almost perfect spring day. She had told him of her terrifying experiences during the night, and he had chided her, gently, for not calling him. He had made her promise that, if there were any further nocturnal invasions, she would tell him immediately. His professional mind—still active and acute, despite his assumption of a new role—told him that the invaders wanted to possess Vanessa, wanted to use her for some purpose yet to be revealed. He was filled with apprehension at their persistence and at the methods they used. But he was also partly reassured by the fact that they could not know where she was, simply because Vanessa did not know where she was.

  She had told him also about Dugal’s intervention. He was glad that she had a friend, even if only a small boy. But he was filled with anxiety that she had freely opened to Dugal. Even if the boy was absolutely loyal, it was placing too much responsibility upon him. But, then, the strength of his signals apparently was such that even if Vanessa had not opened, he could have pushed through her blocks and learned whatever he wanted to learn. According to Vanessa, Dugal had never been able to send so powerfully before. He had told her he had been given a shot—which pointed to a booster drug, possibly Amplia Nine. And if that were the case, how long would the child Dugal be able to hold out against those who were using him so unscrupulously to obtain information? Not long, decided the professional ghost who lived inside Oliver Anderson. They would know if he was holding back, and they would simply stick a needle into his arm. Then, in a very short time, Humboldt’s minions would be thoroughly acquainted with the eccentricities of one Roland Badel.

  He looked at the groceries he had bought. They were superfluous, he realised. He should have thought the situation out hours ago—and made positive plans. One thing was clear. He and Vanessa would have to start moving—and keep on the move until the crisis was over. Until no one was interested any longer in the fate of Vanessa Smith. Tomorrow, he decided, they would begin to travel. Vanessa had talked wistfully of calm stretches of water, of mountains and forests of pine trees. Such things could be found in Scotland. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get lost in the North West Highlands…

  Methodically, he unpacked the groceries and put them away, the perishables in the fridge, the irradiated fresh food on the cold slab in the larder. It was something to do. Something to do until Vanessa returned. When she came back, he would have a serious talk with her. They would face possibilities, probabilities, facts. He knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he did not want to lose her, ever. A strange, sensation for one who had been determined to reject the world and any emotional involvement with people. But a fact to be faced, along with the fact of Dugal and his vulnerability, along with the fact of the sinister unknowns who were fighting for possession of Vanessa’s mind.

  He looked at the clock, and was amazed to discover that the time was almost one-thirty. He had told Vanessa that he would return by one o’clock. She had agreed to be back by then. She wore a wristwatch. But the day was full of sunshine, full of warmth. No doubt she was entranced by the magical carpet of bluebells he had shown her. Very likely she was absorbed in picking an armful to bring back to the house t
o fill it with their subtle but transient fragrance. He decided to go and look for her. He had shown her how far she could go. It would not take long to find her.

  It did not take long to find her.

  She was still lying where she had fallen among the bluebells; but she was no longer unconscious. Her body was shaken by a terrible and almost noiseless sobbing.

  He knelt by her, gently lifted her shoulders, looked at her tear-stained face and held her head against his chest, stroking her hair.

  “Vanessa, what is it? What’s happened? Tell me about it, little one. Please tell me about it.”

  For a few seconds, she was unable to speak. Each time she opened her mouth, the tears welled from her eyes, her body shook and there was a great tightness in her throat—because she did not want to hear the words she would have to use. The words that would make Dugal’s death a fact, a part of history.

  Finally, she managed to control herself. Finally she managed to say: “Dugal is dead. Oh, Oliver, he killed himself for my sake. I was with him. I saw where he was. I felt him die. Poor Dugal… Poor, trusting Dugal.”

  And then, somehow, she managed to tell what had happened. She told it coherently, almost unemotionally, as if she were relating a nightmare. Which, perhaps, it was. A nightmare tragedy in a nightmare world.

  Oliver said nothing for a while. He just held her close, stroking her hair, thinking of the misery she had suffered and of the loneliness and the fear that had dominated so much of her young life.

  At length he said softly: “I was afraid of Dugal. I was afraid of your relationship with him. I was afraid he would betray you. I thought of him simply as a gifted but defenceless child. But now I, who was supposed to know about the workings of the mind, learn that a small boy may achieve the strength, the stature and the courage of a man—simply because he loves someone. I am humbled. I and my kind have been treating people as if they were no more than complicated machines. We have been trying to dehumanise the race of man. It seems now that we need to learn from those we have been trying to corrupt.”

  Vanessa managed a sad smile. “That is the voice of a ghost. The Oliver Anderson I know is only interested in painting, drinking and laying.”

  He seized gratefully upon her gentle reproof and attempted lightness. “You are right, love,” he said, dropping into a northern accent, “I’m a dedicated man—and, like all great artists, essentially I’m a simple man. All I want to do is paint, booze and lay in peace and without interference from the bloody philistines. So, tomorrow, we’ll move away from here. We’ll lose ourselves properly. We’ll find somewhere that’s far away from all the cities. And then we’ll take up the simple life for real—painting, boozing and laying.” He helped her up. “Come on home, Vanessa. There is work to be done. Some packing and some thinking.”

  “Scotland?” suggested Vanessa. “I don’t know why, but I have been thinking about Scotland quite a lot recently. It’s ridiculous. I’ve never been there; but I feel I know the Highlands. There aren’t many people there. I’d love to see the bare mountains and the deer forests and the glens and the lochs… Strange, isn’t it?”

  He shot her a curious glance. “Scotland is it, then? Well, I’m sorry about that, Vanessa. I was thinking of Cornwall or maybe Wales. Anyway, there’s time enough to reach an amicable agreement before tomorrow.”

  Vanessa suddenly shivered, as if a chill wind was blowing. “I loved Dugal,” she said. “I loved him very much.”

  Oliver took her hand in his. “And now I love him also, little one. He has bought some time for you. The price was high. Let us not abuse his gift. Tomorrow we will go to a place that is really safe. Do not ask me where it is.”

  Hand in hand, they walked across the carpet of bluebells, making their way back to the cottage, not knowing that tomorrow was already too late.

  15

  THE LAST NIGHT in the cottage in the South Downs was one that Roland Badel would remember in great detail for the rest of his life. It was the first and last time that he and Vanessa went to bed together as man and woman. It was also the end of a brief idyll, the end of a poor charade.

  They had gone to bed late, after carefully packing all the clothes and personal things they would need in the hovercar; and after Roland, still in his assumed role as Oliver Anderson, had selected paints, brushes, a couple of unfinished canvases and his easel. Then, for a while, he had drunk whisky and pored over maps.

  He had also encouraged Vanessa to drink some whisky. She was still in a state of acute depression. She needed something to dull her misery and, perhaps, shut out the malign thought-invaders who seemed determined that she should get no rest at night.

  In fact, that, rather than any overwhelming sexual compulsion was the reason he took her to share his bed. He wanted to reassure her with his physical presence. He wanted to put his arms round her, enfold her, tell her the unconvincing lie that there was nothing to fear.

  Vanessa did not like the taste of whisky, even when it was mixed with water. She shuddered when she tasted it; but she drank it dutifully because Oliver said it would probably help.

  She was half tipsy when they went to bed. The agonising experience of Dugal’s death appeared at least to have been temporarily enshrouded in alcoholic mist. Besides being half tipsy, she was very tired.

  He knew that she was a virgin. He knew that she was less than half his age. He knew that his real duty was to protect her and make her feel secure.

  But when she lay beside him and snuggled close, none of that seemed quite so important as the living, exciting body that pressed against him.

  He tried to sleep, tried to shut out all desire, all erotic thought. But Vanessa was restless; and her restlessness caused her to turn and sigh and moan. The invaders came with their sinister whisperings. They penetrated the mist and tried to hurt her. She pressed hard against him for comfort.

  He tried to remain detached, tried to distract her, help her repel the intangible presences that seemed to have crept into the bed. But he found himself touching, stroking, caressing. He found himself kissing and holding with passion.

  Sex, he rationalised wildly, was at least a kind of diversion. In the darkness he could visualise her wide open eyes, her open and responsive mouth.

  Vanessa, her tension eased a little by the whisky, was amazed, excited, gratified by the strange sensations surging through her body. She felt with wonderment the liquid revelations of desire, the way her small breasts ached almost as if they were independent of her, the way her skin became supersensitive, somehow magnifying every touch and caress.

  When she was a child, she remembered feeling snowflakes for the first time. The snow had seemed to chill her skin and at the same time bring it strangely alive. The snowflakes she felt now were not cold. Not cold at all. They were snowflakes of fire. But the fire warmed, gave life, rather than consumed.

  Vanessa, at seventeen, was totally innocent. It was as if Nature had played a trick on her, had created a strange practical joke. On the one hand she possessed paranormal powers. Unlike ordinary human beings, her mind was not locked inside her head. It could receive messages directly from other minds. It could reach out. On the other hand, it seemed that Nature had compelled her to pay for this talent with physical retardation. Until the time when Roland Badel/Oliver Anderson held her close, she had never known desire.

  Now, she discovered that it was a wondrous thing. She wanted time to savour it, to examine it. But the woman locked inside her knew that there was no time left at all.

  In the darkness, Oliver said: “Perhaps I should not hold you like this. I am more than twice your age. I have known other women. You are still a virgin. Dear Vanessa, my only excuse is that I love you.”

  She stroked his shoulder. The skin felt soft and the muscles felt hard. There was strength and softness all mixed up together.

  “My love, do what you want to do. That is what I want most of all. Already you make my body sing.”

  She hardly felt it when her hymen broke. S
he was too filled with wonder at the mysterious thing that leapt and pulsed inside her, making her body arch and throb with almost unendurable pleasure.

  Vanessa, her mind and body intoxicated now with physical ecstasy as well as with a little whisky, did not even notice when the invader came, quietly exploring the labyrinth of her mind, probing, watching, gloating; avidly absorbing all the sensual experience that came from the act of love.

  But when it was all over, when Roland and Vanessa lay entwined with passion spent, Janine could not resist a telepathic shout of triumph.

  ‘He screwed us well, didn’t he, dear?’ There was dreadful, silent laughter. ‘What a pity he couldn’t know he was having two trollops for the price of one!’

  Vanessa cried out, shrank away from Roland, lay there shivering, feeling exposed, dirty, horrible. Trying desperately to drive the invader from her mind; but lacking the strength, the clarity and discipline to do so.

  “What is it, love? What’s happened? Did I hurt you?” Roland was perplexed. One moment Vanessa seemed on the edge of restful sleep, the next she was a shaking wreck.

  She managed to speak calmly, “Someone has probed me. She’s there still. She was there when—” Vanessa could not say it. For what had been wonderful was now humiliating and dirty.

  Roland, now wide awake, tried to draw her close once more. “Don’t panic, darling. Can you reject her? Can you get her out?”

  “I’m trying,” Vanessa said desperately. “I’m trying.”

  ‘Tell him I like his shoulders,’ whispered Janine maliciously. ‘Tell him I think he’s got a big future—chiefly between his legs—for girls like you and me.’

  Vanessa thrust away from Roland, and rolled to the edge of the bed, retching.

  ‘Not much of a woman, are you, girlie?’ whispered Janine. ‘Never mind. I’ll console him. I’ve got better tits than yours… We know where you are now, sweetie, and we’re coming for you soon!’