Vanessa was physically sick. She began to vomit uncontrollably on to the bedroom floor. It was—though she did not know it—the best thing she could have done.
Janine could not endure the experience. She fled.
Roland Badel turned on the light and gazed in consternation and pity as Vanessa, who, not long ago had enjoyed the pleasures of love, now lay with her head over the side of the bed, her slender body racked by convulsions as she simultaneously wept and vomited.
“Turn off the light!” she managed to gasp. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
He laid his hand gently on her back, stroked it, patted it as he would have stroked and patted a child. “I will not turn the light out,” he said gently. “We will share suffering and humiliation as we share love.”
Soon the horrible knotting and surging in her stomach was over. Vanessa lay on the bed helplessly, gasping for air, while tears fell from her eyes into the steaming vomit.
Now that she was over it, Roland went into action. Still naked, he dashed into the bathroom, found towels, brought them and cleaned up the helpless Vanessa Finally, as she lay on the bed, he cleaned up the mess on the floor and sprayed the remaining damp patch liberally with an aerosol air-sweetener.
“She was inside me,” said Vanessa dully, “feeling you as I felt you, watching, prying.” She shuddered. “Even enjoying… I can’t think about it anymore. I shall be sick again.”
“Don’t think about it, then,” he said firmly. “Don’t think about anything that has happened tonight. Think only that we are going away tomorrow—far, far away. And we are going to devise a way of getting rid of this kind of torment for good. I know a surgeon—a very good man—who has done a lot of work on paranormals with head injuries. When the furore has died down, I’ll contact him. If I understood rightly, there is a fairly simple operation that will—“
“Oliver, please,” she said faintly. “Not now. Tomorrow or the day after you shall tell me, but not now.”
He cursed his stupidity. “I’m a fool. Forgive me.” He gave a grim laugh. “I’m supposed to be the clever one. Forgive me. Tomorrow we will put a lot of miles behind us, and then—”
“Charming,” said a male voice. “So informal, but quite charming. What is that dreadful smell?”
Roland whirled and saw a man standing in the doorway of the bedroom. “Who the devil are you? How did you get in? What do you want?”
“Rest easy, Dr. Badel. Don’t try anything foolish.”
“My name is Anderson.”
“So?” The man in the doorway kept his hand in his pocket and advanced into the room. “Then I am one of the Brothers Grimm.” He permitted himself the ghost of a smile. Then he frowned and looked disapprovingly at Vanessa. “You shouldn’t have done that, my dear. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
Vanessa sat up on the bed, her small breasts firm and compactly beautiful, her hair matted about her shoulders, her eyes dark with fatigue, her face stained with recent anguish.
She looked at Roland and said unemotionally: “His name is Denzil Ingram. He is a government man and he has a laser pistol in his pocket. He came here to kill us.”
16
INGRAM SAID: “I’m truly sorry you did that, Vanessa. You should not have been able to do it. But, then, I am told you have exceptional powers.”
Now that he had at last found his prey, Ingram discovered with great annoyance that, for perhaps the first time in his professional career, he utterly loathed his task. He was a highly trained hunter, an expert in sudden death. In the course of his duties, he had been required to kill many people—spies, saboteurs, revolutionaries, would-be assassins. He had never enjoyed killing. It was like destroying a still functioning machine—like sending a perfectly good hovercar to the scrapyard.
But, formerly, killing could be justified by logic. It was necessary to take out spies, assassins and the like. He was paid and empowered to protect the security of the state. A grown man—or woman—who chose to attempt to disrupt the status quo was fully aware of the price of failure and therefore must be prepared to pay when the reckoning was presented.
But Vanessa Smith was not a revolutionary or an assassin. She was still only a child. All she had done was to escape from a school for paranormals. It was her tragedy that the Opposition was using her existence for political ends. It was her tragedy that Sir Joseph Humboldt needed her non-existence also for political ends. As far as the politicians were concerned, she was not a person—just an explosive Parliamentary Question.
And yet she was only a child—no, half a child and half a woman—sitting pathetically naked on a bed where she had doubtless learned about sex for the first and, sadly, the last time.
Strange how vulnerable people seemed when they were naked. She and Badel seemed frozen by shock. Denzil Ingram hoped very much that they had enjoyed what had evidently just passed between them. Otherwise, it would be doubly terrible to die in such circumstances. But must they die? He needed time to think.
“Put on your clothes,” he said irritably. “You are sorry I’m here, and I am sorry I’m here. Put on your clothes, and we will all try to be civilised. But don’t do anything stupid, Dr. Badel. I am trained for this sort of thing: you are not.”
“I imagine,” said Roland, “that it will be easier for you to kill us when we are not looking at you.” He held Vanessa’s hand and stared unwaveringly at Denzil Ingram. “A small act of self-indulgence that will make you feel warmer. Right?”
“Wrong,” said Ingram. “Put on your clothes, Dr. Badel. Vanessa will tell you that I don’t intend to shoot while you are zipping up your trousers. She will doubtless confirm that I am also trying rather hard to think of an alternative.”
Vanessa looked at Roland and nodded. They began to dress. While they did so, Denzil Ingram went on talking.
“We have no time to speak delicately or—as they used to say when I was young—beat about the bush. My mission, as Vanessa knows, is to take her out. And, since you have become involved with her, Dr. Badel, unhappily that also includes you.”
“We live in a nice world,” commented Roland, putting on his trousers and a shirt, but contriving all the time to face Ingram. “What has she done that is so terrible? Has she hit an old lady with an iron bar? Has she probed somebody in possession of state secrets? Has she tapped Joe Humboldt’s erotic dreams?”
Ingram sighed. “Let us take the bit about justice as read, Dr. Badel. Vanessa is not old enough; but you know and I know that justice is a chimera. All Vanessa has done is to jump school. Alas, in doing so, she has become a Parliamentary Question. Upon her existence or non-existence depends the fate of a Bill and quite possibly the fate of a government. I am paid to protect the state and the government. Do you see my problem?”
“Perfectly. But how do you sleep at nights?”
“Quite well, thank you. I have my anodynes… Incidentally, I have sent my men away. I tell you this, Dr. Badel, not to raise hope but so that you may understand my position before we talk. It is routine procedure these days. They found what I wanted them to find—but they did not know quite what I was looking for. A sensible precaution. If any of them are probed, they can reveal only that I sought a man with a disfigured face. They cannot reveal, subsequently, if that man lived or died, or even if he had a companion. Do I make myself clear?”
“Damnably clear.” Roland’s voice was rising, though he tried desperately to remain calm. “What is the scenario? Unknown lovers die in suicide pact—or will you burn the house afterwards and create a temporary local mystery?”
Vanessa had finished dressing. She came to Roland. He held her close, stroked her hair.
“There are several possible scenarios, as you are pleased to call them, Dr. Badel. But let us talk.”
Roland could not contain his anger. “Is that your private kick, man? Have you sunk so low that you need to see your victims squirm?”
Ingram sighed. It should have been so easy. But it was not going as
planned. If only he had burst into the room and killed without thinking. It was a fatal mistake to think too much. He was getting old.
“Tell him, Vanessa. This time I will open to you. Tell him what you find.”
Vanessa closed her eyes momentarily. Then she turned to Roland Badel. “He found us—or you—through my mother. She has been in rapport with me. She had an image of a man with a disfigured face. He had decided to kill my mother and her husband after he had killed me. But now he is not sure what to do. He—he wants to avoid the killing, if he can.”
“Why?” Roland could not understand it.
Vanessa shot a questioning glance at Denzil Ingram.
“Tell him!”
“He saw me on the bed, defenceless. He saw me as a child. It reminded him of his own childhood… He—he, too, was put into a state home because he was unwanted. He had to fight very hard to make his way in the world.”
Denzil Ingram said: “Well, Dr. Badel, are you satisfied? I said that I wanted you to understand my position before we talked. I also said that I was not trying to raise any hope. Now, shall we talk or shall I carry out my task as efficiently and painlessly as possible?”
Somehow, Vanessa had suddenly passed beyond fear. Or perhaps she had locked the fear away so deep that she could no longer feel it consciously. “We will talk, Mr. Ingram,” she said calmly. “I don’t think you want either of us to plead with you. But we will talk.”
Ingram kept his hand firmly on the laser pistol in his pocket. “I’m glad, Vanessa. It may get us nowhere, but we will talk. If there is any alternative that does not affect my integrity, I will gladly take it. My mission remains unchanged: to ensure that Vanessa Smith never existed. There is no time for any other route.”
“Integrity!” exploded Roland. “You talk of integrity.”
Ingram smiled. “Surely, Dr. Badel, as a psychologist you will agree that anyone who remains true to his own values and avowed function preserves subjective integrity?”
Vanessa said: “Tell me about my mother, Mr. Ingram. I would like to have some knowledge of her, even if second-hand.”
“She is a very attractive woman, Vanessa. I think you would like her. Fairly tall, slim, very sensitive, volatile. She threw a glass at me and cut my head. Yes, you would like her. She is called Jenny Pargetter. She is in her late thirties. She has short, brown hair, very fine, well looked after. She has a longish face, high cheek bones, large brown eyes, expressive lips. Her husband, Simon, is a prosperous city executive. They obviously love each other very much. In other circumstances, I might count myself lucky if they were my friends.”
“Is Simon my father?”
“No. Your father died before you were born. He was, I believe, a young Rhodesian arts graduate. He was killed in a protest brawl near the American Embassy.”
“I see. Thank you. Thank you for giving me some memories to treasure. I can invent the rest, Mr. Ingram. You must know that people like us are good at invention.”
Roland said: “You spoke of alternatives, Ingram. Have you any to suggest?”
Denzil Ingram shrugged. “I have one. But, from a professional point of view, you may consider the cure to be worse than the disease, so to speak… Have you any whisky?”
“It’s downstairs. I’ll get it.”
Ingram smiled. “Please. I am not in my dotage. We will all go downstairs. You will both go very slowly ahead of me. Let us not have any mistakes. I hate mistakes. They do terrible things to my reflexes.”
In the living room, Denzil Ingram settled in an easy chair with a glass of whisky in his hand just as if he were paying a relaxed social call.
“Thank you for the whisky. You will not join me, Dr. Badel?”
“Forgive me. I do not drink with executioners.”
“Tut-tut. Such social prejudice—especially in a distinguished psychologist… And you, Vanessa? Are you old enough to drink whisky?”
She gave a faint smile. “I had some earlier. Then I was sick.”
“Come to the point, man,” said Roland irritably. “Let us hear what, if anything, you have to offer. You may enjoy the suspense. We do not.” He glanced at Vanessa, who was very pale. “She has had about as much as she can stand.”
Denzil Ingram took a deep breath. “Well, then, let us consider. First, as I have said, it is now necessary that Dr. Roland Badel and Vanessa Smith cease to exist. Second, as Vanessa has discovered, I do not wish to kill you if it can be avoided. Third, imprisonment is out of the question. It carries too many risks. Fourth… Well, Dr. Badel, you at least must realise the alternative.”
Roland nodded slowly. “Surgery, brain-washing, synthetic personalities.”
“It can be done,” said Ingram calmly. “You will know better than I about the recent techniques in brain surgery and personality implantation. I am told it is entirely possible to create new personalities within six weeks.”
“Zombies,” said Roland. “I have seen case-histories. They live, they function, but what are they?”
Ingram shrugged. “At least they are alive. They can be contented. They can find fulfilment.”
“So can laboratory rats—which is what you propose to turn us into. Even you must appreciate that to destroy the personality while preserving the body is simply another kind of death… And what afterwards? You would have to keep your synthetic Miss X and Mr. Y under surveillance for the rest of their lives in case the shadow personalities emerged.”
“That is true. But Miss X and Mr. Y need know nothing of it.”
Roland Badel gave a bitter laugh. “Miss X and Mr. Y would know nothing about anything that matters. I cannot speak for Vanessa but I can speak for myself. It is not for me, Ingram.”
Vanessa said softly. “You must decide for me, also, Roland. I know it’s a great responsibility. But I need to feel that someone is responsible for me in my life, and even in my death. Forgive me for bringing all this on you. I’m sorry.”
Roland pressed her hand. Then he turned to Denzil Ingram. “There is another solution. The simple one. Let us go, say, to South America—a country of your choosing. Give us passports and new names. Keep us under surveillance if you must. We will not make trouble.”
Ingram shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. It is tempting. But the risks are too great. The Opposition will do everything they can to find Vanessa. If they succeed, my head is on the block… Have you any other suggestions, Dr. Badel?”
“There is an induced amnesia technique that—“
“Not on. My department has experimented with it. The effects are unpredictable—as you must know, of course.” Ingram seemed genuinely sad as he spoke.
“I have just thought of something,” said Vanessa, her voice trembling. “It seems that I alone am the real problem, Mr. Ingram. If you kill me and—” her voice faltered, “destroy the evidence, as I am sure you know how, there can be no need to kill Dr. Badel.”
“You would do this for him?” There was a note of respect in Denzil Ingram’s voice.
“I love him, you see. Besides,” she smiled at Roland, “if I had not tried to steal eggs from his hens, you would not now be here. I realise I have to die. I don’t know very much about the political situation that makes my death necessary, and I don’t want to know. But, surely, when I am gone there is no real evidence that I ever lived, you would not need to kill Roland or my mother or her husband… Even if they would not give you their word, I am sure they would give it to me.”
Dr. Roland Badel said nothing. He did not trust himself to speak. There were tears on his face. It was a strange sensation. Inconsequentially, he tried to remember when he had last wept.
Denzil Ingram took the laser pistol out of his pocket. He looked at it for a moment or two, then placed it on the small table by his chair.
“I am getting old, Vanessa. I have lived by my own code for more years than I care to remember. Survival of the fittest.” He smiled. “It seemed a good code. A classic code, in fact. But when a young girl can make me doubt its
worth, I realise I have outlived my values.”
He looked at Roland. “Dr. Badel, you suggested South America.” ‘
“I did,” said Roland evenly.
“Can you arrange passports, money, etcetera?”
“I think so.”
“Good. May I recommend Chile or Peru. We do not have particularly good relations with either country at the moment. I think you could establish new identities there without too much difficulty… I am now going to pour myself a rather large whisky. I am also going to smoke a cigarette. I am getting careless in my dotage. You see my laser pistol. I would be greatly indebted if you do not use it until I put my empty glass down. You will aim a little to the left of my spine and a foot below the shoulder. Is that agreed?”
“It is agreed, Mr. Ingram,” said Roland Badel, amazed. “I still do not drink with executioners; but it would be a great privilege to drink with a brave man. May I pour the whisky?”
“No, Dr. Badel,” said Ingram with a tight smile. “Indulge a foible, please. It is my privilege also not to drink with my executioner.”
Vanessa said fiercely: “Must it end like this? Must somebody die? Is the world entirely mad?”
“Yes, Vanessa,” said Ingram, “the world is entirely mad, and somebody must die.” Then he added fiercely: “Leave me my pride, please. It is all I have left… Now, no more words, please, from either of you. I wish to enjoy my whisky.”
He got up, went to the antique sideboard, lifted the decanter and poured his whisky. He took a sip, rolling the fluid round his mouth, savouring it, trying not to think of anything but memories—the few good times he had known: a toboggan ride down a Derbyshire hillside one Christmas long, long ago, with a man who seemed to know all about him and might or might not have been his father; his first job, making tea for mysterious men in a secret government department, men who talked nonchalantly of exotic places like Sofia, Belgrade, Lisbon, Istanbul, Bangkok; a woman called Elise who had once taught him much about love in the most squalid circumstances in Marseilles. On the whole, he reflected, it had been an interesting life, if a lonely one. There was some amusement to be derived from the knowledge that he was voluntarily surrendering it, at a point when his career could be greatly advanced, in the English South Downs. Damn Vanessa! She was the daughter he would have liked to have had, if there had been time…
Prisoner of Fire Page 10
