by Bill Kitson
Becky slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Mike, I need to talk to you.’
Nash looked at her, remembering how they’d met. He’d thought she looked beautiful then. She looked even lovelier now. ‘What about?’
‘There was a meeting at The Gazette today. My uncle’s decided to retire later next year. That means they’ve to find a new editor and they’re reluctant to let it go out of the family. So they’ve asked me to consider taking over when he goes. The thing is,’ she hesitated, ‘they want me to go to London for twelve months, to work on one of the nationals to get experience.’
‘Oh, I see. What was your answer?’
‘I said I’d have to ask you before I made any decision.’
He stopped and turned her to face him. ‘Look, Becky, if it’s a question of your career, don’t let me stand in your way. I’ll miss you like hell, but twelve months isn’t forever.’
‘Are you sure, Mike? It’d mean we’d have very little time together. They made it pretty clear when I got down there the work would be fairly hectic. We might go months without seeing one another.’
‘I understand.’ He took her hand. ‘I really do, Becks. It’s just come as a bit of a shock.’ He smiled at her. ‘When do you start?’
‘If I say yes, they’ll want me down there in a month’s time. The arrangements will have to be finalized before then.’
‘A month? That doesn’t give us much time.’ He slipped his arm round her waist. ‘So we’d better make the most of what we’ve got.’
What Jessica had seen from those film clips made her even more bewildered. All right, the tragedy he’d suffered would knock any man sideways. But what she’d seen pointed to him being a decent, caring family man. So what was it turned him into a self-confessed murderer? One who’d killed two of her family, and had been within an ace of killing her. What made a human being into a monster? The thought of what he might be capable of made her shiver. He’d been restrained, so far. Would that end? Would something trigger off another blood lust? And what would it be? A word? A gesture? An unthinking remark?
He switched the TV off. ‘Lunch,’ he explained curtly.
She watched him making sandwiches. It was hardly lunchtime. She risked a glance at the clock: 11.30 a.m. If she’d been less afraid of him she might have questioned the timing. He put a plate containing chicken salad sandwiches in front of her and turned to brew tea. She ate, slowly at first; then realized in spite of the hour, in spite of her fear, she was hungry. When she’d finished he took her plate and replaced it with a mug. She was three quarters of the way down the tea when she felt a sudden cramp in her stomach. She almost gasped aloud with the pain. She waited for a moment until it eased. She looked up to find him watching her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘It’s just, there’s something I need.’
How could she explain? To a stranger, to someone she was in fear of? His expression didn’t change, but he crossed to one of the wall units. He opened the door and rummaged inside. Without a word he took out a small cardboard box and passed it to her. She stared from the box, with its distinctive logo, to her captor. He gestured towards the toilet. If his understanding of what was wrong had led her to hope for privacy to do what was needed, that was soon dashed as he followed her.
She completed the operation, scarlet with embarrassment and shame, and turned to wash her hands. The room went dizzy. He caught her as she fell, hoisted her up and carried her to the couch.
When she started to regain consciousness she was aware something had changed. She could feel the soft cotton of the duvet covering her, against her skin, and realized she was naked. He’d undressed her; that much was obvious. Why? If he’d assaulted her, she felt sure she’d be aware of it. Besides, he wouldn’t, surely, knowing what he knew of her state.
She turned onto one side. In the semi-darkness she could just discern another figure, on a bed similar to hers, only two feet away. Her captor? Or another victim?
The figure stirred, stood up. A second later he pulled back the curtain and a small amount of light filtered into the compartment. She turned her head away. There was enough light for her to see that he too was undressed. She heard movement and risked a sideways glance. He was pulling a shirt over his head. A second later and he was dressed. ‘Come on, time to get up.’ He switched a light on. He was wearing a camouflage shirt and combat trousers. He held out a small bundle of clothing. She swung her legs off the bed, keeping the duvet wrapped round her body. He laughed. ‘No false modesty. I said before, you have nothing to hide from me.’
He pulled the duvet from her and hoisted her to her feet. She swayed slightly, knew he must have drugged her again.
He held on to her for a moment, watching her face. ‘All right now?’
She nodded and turned to get dressed. She looked at the clothes, questions racing through her mind, tumbling over each other. The sports bra and Lycra leggings were similar to those she used in gymnastics class at school, but why did he want her to wear them? And where had he got them? She straightened up and he held out a pair of trainers and sweatshirt. ‘Come on, no time to waste. Training starts in five minutes.’
He walked a couple of paces to the rear of the compartment and opened a door. He steadied her as she stepped out. She took a deep breath. The air felt clean and cold. She looked around; there was snow on the hilltops. Dawn was just breaking, which explained why it had been so gloomy inside. The moorland stretched as far as she could see.
‘Let’s get started. See that peg?’
She followed the line of his pointing finger. She could just make out a stake driven into the ground about two hundred yards away. She nodded.
‘You sprint as fast as you can to the peg. You touch down, count to fifteen slowly; then run back here as fast as you can. Got it?’
‘How do you know I won’t run away?’
‘Three reasons. One, you’ve nowhere to run to. There’s no human habitation within ten miles of here. That’s why I’ve chosen this spot. Added to that, I doubt if your time for two hundred metres is within three seconds of mine, and I can maintain that pace, or close to it for almost three miles. More when I’m in peak condition. And finally, most important of all, you want to know what this is all about, who’s behind it and what I intend to do, with you and everything else. If you did manage to get away, you wouldn’t get to find that out. If you come back to the van, I’ll tell you after breakfast.’
When he was like this, as she’d seen him on the film he’d shown her, she wasn’t one bit scared of him. She even found herself questioning his claim that he’d killed her mother and brother. After all, she’d no proof they were dead, only his word.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he said, ‘They didn’t tell you, did they?’
‘Tell me what? Who didn’t tell me?’
‘The people who took you away from school. They didn’t tell you that your mother and brother were dead, did they?’
She stared in confusion.
‘Like I said, eventually you’ll start to think and act as I do. That’s part of it.’
Part of what, she wondered. She wasn’t to know that the reason she was so relaxed was the drugs in her system. This was the first stage of the treatment. And that was why he was able to gauge her thoughts and emotions so accurately. Because he’d been through the same process. Not once, but many times. Indeed, he was going through it again. Because it was pointless feeding her the drugs that would turn her into a warrior, such as him, if he was unable to match her aggression when the time came.
At first she enjoyed the sprints, whilst trying to avoid the small patches of ice. He’d made her go through a rigorous fifteen minute warm up programme of exercises before she started. He stood alongside the van, stopwatch in hand and shouted, ‘Go.’ She ran, reached the peg and stopped, one hand resting on the top. She counted to fifteen, turned and ran back. ‘Again,’ he told her. ‘And this time run as if you mean it. As if you’re late for a bus. Not out for an afternoon stroll.’
So, she tried again. And again. After five laps, she turned on him. ‘Let’s see you do it faster.’
He reached out and grabbed her hand. Before she was properly aware, she was running, half-towed along by her captor. She was running faster than she thought she was capable of. They reached the peg, quicker than she’d managed alone. He kept hold of her hand, and together they raced back to the van. Again and again they ran, until her muscles ached and her chest heaved as she fought to get air into her lungs.
Eventually he stopped, and she was pleased to see he too was a little short of breath. Surely now they’d rest?
‘Right, now we’re going for a bit of stamina training. Your muscles are like jelly. They need toning up.’
Toning up, in his terminology, involved a seemingly endless long distance run, over patches of snow interspersed with moorland turf; through peat, that came over the tops of her trainers and squelched uncomfortably against her toes. She was by now in a haze of exhaustion. Unable to see, she knew she’d have fallen several times were it not for his hand, steadying her, guiding her, pulling her with him. She wasn’t aware they’d turned round, and it was a shock when he slowed them to a halt outside the motorhome. He glanced at his watch. ‘Not bad for a beginner,’ he commented.
Was that praise? And would she have some rest now? Seemingly not, for he opened a small compartment on the side of the vehicle and took out some objects she recognized, her heart sinking. ‘You need building up,’ he told her, ‘and this is the quickest way, short of steroids.’
The weights weren’t too bad. Not at first. But as the exercises got repeated time after time, the strain on her already tired muscles got worse and worse. His insistence on adding weight to the bars didn’t help. Eventually he called a halt. ‘That’s enough for this morning. We’ll go through the same routine this afternoon.’
‘Oh good,’ she panted. ‘Something to look forward to.’
He ushered her inside and opened the door opposite the tiny kitchenette. ‘Get your clothes off. I’ll rinse them through whilst you’re showering.’
The water was hot. As she was soaping herself down, she realized she’d stripped naked in front of him without even thinking about it. She was puzzled, but accepted it. When she got out of the shower, he was standing outside the door. He too was naked.
He smiled at her. ‘Clean clothes on the bed.’
From inside the cubicle she could hear the water running. She had the opportunity to escape if she wanted to. She hesitated, before sitting down. The clothes he’d put out for her were a T-shirt and jeans, bra and pants, alongside which was a clean pair of trainers. In fact they looked brand new. Everything did. She dressed slowly, thoughtfully. Why hadn’t she taken the chance to make a run for it? She knew the answer even as she asked the question. He’d promised to tell her what it was all about. She was keen to know. He’d also promised to tell her what was going to happen to her. She wasn’t as desperately keen to hear that, but she knew her curiosity would keep her here until she’d found out.
He emerged from the shower and strode across to the bed next to hers. Without glancing at her he dressed, in much the same outfit as he’d given her. Minus the bra, she thought, and realized with a shock that she’d made a joke. He turned and smiled, she wished he wouldn’t. It confused her. She knew she should be scared, but she wasn’t. She knew she shouldn’t sympathize with this man, but she did.
He stood directly in front of her. He lifted her chin until she was looking into his eyes. ‘The training is part of the process. Part of your new life. How long this will take I don’t know. But whilst it lasts, you belong to me. To do with as I think fit. Spoils of war. And this is what I’ve chosen for you. You will become like me. You will think and act like me. You will eat when I eat, drink when I drink, sleep when I sleep. Every action of yours will mirror mine. Don’t try to fight against it. There’s no point. That isn’t a threat. It’s a natural result of what’s happening to us. Now, breakfast. Then I’ll tell you what this is all about. I’m afraid you’re in for some shocks.’
Despite Paul Farley’s careful planning, the raid on Helm Pharm was a disaster. He wasn’t sure quite how their plans had been blown, but the police were there before them. When he saw the line of officers waiting in front of the gates to the laboratory, Paul noticed they were reinforced by a strong contingent of security guards inside the pharmaceutical company grounds.
Security lights blazed from the roof of each building, flooding the area in harsh detail. Any attempt to enter the laboratory by stealth was obviously going to be doomed to failure. If he’d any remaining doubt that their plans had been leaked, these were dispelled when he spotted cameras from two local TV stations set up ready to record the action. Alongside one of these he noticed a photographer from The Netherdale Gazette.
Paul had a quick word with a couple of his most trusted comrades. ‘Spread the message round everyone. The entry’s a bust. Stick to a peaceful demo outside the gates. If anyone wants to go for a sit down protest it’s up to them. I’m going to try and find out how we’ve been rumbled.’
He headed for the place where the press photographer was standing, her camera already snapping stills of the developing protest. He knew her, slightly. Becky Pollard was a customer of the building society where Paul worked. Alongside her was another of their customers. He greeted them with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. ‘How did you get to hear about this?’
He addressed the question to Becky, but it was Detective Inspector Nash who answered. ‘I hope you weren’t considering anything more radical than this?’
Nash gestured to the lines of chanting, banner waving protesters. ‘Of course not,’ Paul lied. ‘Even if we had been, it wouldn’t have been much good. How did you know we’d be here?’
Nash smiled. ‘You should choose a different pub to meet in. Or pick a night when I’m not in the other bar. I saw your lot last night and guessed this place would be the object of your attention.’
‘We only wanted to draw attention to what they’re doing in there.’ Paul jerked a thumb in the direction of the laboratory. ‘To put them on notice that we’re aware of the cruelty they’re inflicting on poor defenceless animals. And I suppose I’d better get on with it.’ He stepped away to join the rest of the demonstrators. ‘But we’ll be back, make no mistake,’ he muttered – to himself.
Later, as Nash and Becky were dining in their favourite Italian restaurant, Nash fell into an abstracted silence. Becky watched him and waited, knowing he was trying to work something out. It was some time before he came out of his reverie. So long in fact that Gino, the proprietor of La Giaconda, was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with the seafood salad Nash had ordered.
As her companion lifted his head from contemplating his food, Becky grinned. ‘Welcome back, maestro. Care to give us the benefit of your genius?’ She saw Nash’s puzzled expression, ‘You’ve been toying with your food so long, poor Gino’s quite worried.’
‘I was thinking about something,’ Nash said feebly.
‘We know,’ Becky gestured to the diners at the surrounding tables, ‘we could all hear the cogs grinding. So what was it you were thinking about so deeply?’
Nash hesitated for a moment, ‘OK, let me ask you something. What does the word pharmaceutical, suggest to you.’
‘Medicines,’ she replied promptly. ‘Drugs, tablets, injections’ – she screwed her face up – ‘and cough mixture.’
Nash smiled. ‘Exactly, that’s just what I thought. So, answer me this. What use would the military have for a pharmaceutical company? I don’t just mean as a supplier of aspirin, or any of the proprietary medicines. But something that is cloaked in secrecy and attracts such a high level of security that anything connected to that company is handled by Military Intelligence?’
Becky frowned. She thought for a few moments before shaking her head. ‘I’ve no idea. Why do you ask?’
Nash glanced round; then began to explain the ba
ckground to the Adam North murder. Or rather, what little he knew. He concentrated on his frustrated attempts to speak to the dead man’s father. ‘None of it makes sense. If the company was an electronics firm, or involved in the design or manufacture of weapons systems I could understand the military’s involvement, but a drugs company….’ His voice trailed off into silence.
A second later he looked across the table, his face animated. ‘Do you recall me telling you about the time when I was having really vivid nightmares? Almost hallucinations?’
Becky nodded. ‘At the time I just thought it was part of your weird mind.’
‘Takes one to know one. Anyway, the doctor at Netherdale General said they were due to a mixture of the medication I was taking, combined with alcohol. His exact words were, “Taking either of them on their own wouldn’t be a problem. Put them together, and they act like a mood altering drug. Take them for long enough and they’ll not only be hallucinogenic, they’ll start to affect your behaviour.”’
‘Like LSD you mean?’
‘Something of the sort, although the stuff I was on wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as LSD. But, given what he told me, suppose Helm Pharm is researching and developing similar sorts of drugs for military use.’
‘This is beginning to sound like something from an American spy film. Or could it be you’re back on the medication?’
‘The American connection might not be too far from the truth.’ Nash ignored the insult. ‘Remember I said Dr North spent a long time working in America? Well, I read something a while back about a project called MKULTRA. It was a CIA experiment that involved them feeding drugs to GIs, right through from the 1950s to the 1970s. Unfortunately, much of what is known about it can’t be ratified, because the director of the CIA ordered all the files to be destroyed following the Watergate scandal. But if you think about it, it makes sense. It would explain why those serving in Vietnam had such easy access to drugs.’
‘That sounds really cruel and horrible. From what I’ve heard about drugs like that, the effects can last for years. If not for a lifetime.’
