Antman

by Robert V. Adams

  'That makes me feel great. The wives I mix with daily may be soon living with bankrupt husbands from your Centre, but I'm not to be concerned about it.'

  'Okay, we're putting together a package to stave this off. It's whether we can deliver in the next few weeks.'

  'Package, deliver? You make it sound like the bloody Post Office,' she shouted, unable to curb her anger.

  'There's no need to shout. It's a consequence of the global uncertainties affecting the sector.'

  'I hate you when you speak like that.'

  Tom shrugged: 'I can only tell you the situation.'

  'I won't put up with any more of this, Tom. I am not one of your bloody staff,' Laura blurted out between clenched teeth.

  The truce between them had held briefly last winter, from Detlev's death to just after the funeral; now it was falling apart, sentence by sentence:

  'Not in front of the children,' he said very quietly.

  'Mum,' called Matthew from the corner of the L-shaped lounge, screened off by a small group of bookshelves in a rectangular U shape.

  'You and your bloody smooth phrases,' she shouted. 'Why should I keep quiet to protect your lies about the happily married university professor and this stuffy campus? They want to get real and come into the late twentieth century. People balance careers against families in the real world, they have rows and sometimes' – she was crying now – 'they’re unhappy and they split up.'

  'You shouldn't say these things,' he said quietly.

  'Mum, I want to tell you something.'

  'Don't counsel me,' said Laura defiantly. 'I'll say what I like.'

  'Mum,' said Matthew, more insistently than ever. 'Why do you always ignore me when you're arguing with Daddy?'

  'I am not arguing, Matthew. We're having a discussion. All parents discuss and sometimes they disagree.'

  'Michael's parents don't. They aren't always cross like you and Daddy.'

  'How can you be sure?'

  'Because they aren't when I go to tea with Michael.'

  'How do you know they don't when you leave?'

  'I've slept at Michael's and they don't then either.'

  'Bully for them,' Tom said and regretted it immediately.

  The mobile in his pocket played an insistent jingle. He pulled it out and put it to his ear. He stood by the front door and stepped outside so he could hear. When he returned he was agitated. 'Got to go,' he said hastily.

  'Will we see you again tonight?'

  'I won't be too late. Don't stay up for me. My colleagues are having a crisis. It's a late shift meeting about our strategy to resist the budget cuts.'

  'It's always a late shift these days,' she said as he disappeared towards the car.

  The children were undressed and having supper in the loft extension upstairs which doubled as spare bedroom and playroom. Matthew picked up the paper Laura had been reading.

  'This is a picture of the funny man we saw today in town.'

  'Mmmm,' said Laura without looking.

  'I'm getting really really mad,' exclaimed Matthew.

  'What, darling?'

  'The man,' said Matthew. 'This is his picture in the paper.'

  'It can't be, darling,' said Laura, hearing him for the first time.

  'It is, Mum,' insisted Matthew. 'Grown-ups don't ever believe children but they believe each other even when they're wrong.'

  Laura came back from her reverie with a bump as she knocked her head on the corner of the sloping roof with the velux window in it:

  'I do believe you, darlings.' She was slightly relieved to find the children pointing to a rather poor print in the TV guide of a third-rank actor in a spaghetti Western. 'But there isn't a lot we can do about it. This man in the picture most likely lives in America, thousands of miles away. But the man you saw was probably very like him.'

  She gabbled on, partly to relieve her nerves.

  'You can't be sure, because these tiny pictures in papers like this are often not very clear. Mind you, if he looked like this, he might not be very nice.' She shivered. 'Ow, Mummy must get a flannel.' She clutched the bump on her head 'There'll be a bruise here if she doesn't put something on it to relieve the pain and the swelling. Snuggle down, there's a love. Mummy's so shattered, she's off to bed in a couple of minutes.'

  'Daddy said he'd kiss us good night.'

  'Daddy's at work and won't be back till you're both asleep.'

  She suppressed her anger at Tom and bent over Matthew and Sarah in turn, kissing them as they lay in their beds.

  Chapter 5

  The coroner's office received a phone call early the following morning.

  'This is the University. Is that Ms Wistow?'

  'Yes.' Faith Wistow presumed the job of altering the arrangements had been left to a male administrative assistant.

  'Professor Fortius apologises for inconveniencing you. His arrangements have had to change. He wants to bring the meeting forward an hour. Is it possible? He'll be driving. He'll pick you up at the entrance to the industrial estate on Grove Park Road. He has a call to make there. He suggests 11:45. Is that acceptable?'

  Because of her background and experience, Faith was a confident young woman. The Grove Park Road area was run down and some way from the shopping centre, but perhaps the professor was short of time. He might even have an eating place in mind, perhaps a short car journey away at pubs in the villages of Tickton or Dunswell. To be fair, the coroner's office had quite difficult parking unless you knew your way about. Late at night, she'd have hesitated to walk there alone, but in the daytime it was different. She could handle herself, and men. She had travelled alone quite extensively in Western Europe whilst in her previous job.

  She was there at the pre-arranged time. The car drew up. She leaned over and bent forward to greet the professor through the open window on the passenger side. She couldn't see into the interior properly. The window wasn't opened far enough. He wore sunglasses.

  'Professor Fortius?

  'Hi, Faith Wistow? Please get in. We must drive. I saw a traffic warden hovering round the corner.'

  Faith felt pressured to act quickly. He was in a hurry to move off the double yellow lines.

  She hadn't a clear recollection of the professor from the day of the inquest, but she quickly realised this was not professor Fortius. He lacked an air of authority. He just didn't act the part.

  'Are you the professor's chauffeur?' she asked, going for the next most plausible explanation.

  'He doesn't have one, but I'm his driver for today,' the man replied.

  She relaxed a little, but still sat towards the front edge of the rear seat.

  Graver drove the woman out onto the ring road, to the east side of town. After a couple of junctions, instead of turning to follow the main road, he veered off, turning left at a very minor junction before driving into a wood where the road was nothing more than a muddy bridle path. The car stopped.

  It was too late, far later than Faith realised. She scrabbled for the door handle but it had been removed. At her first intimation that any minute she might be fighting for her life, the driver's right arm shot across, and while his left hand suddenly gripped her right forearm, he slipped her sleeve up and slid under her skin the hypodermic which had appeared in his right hand. It was done in two seconds, with great slickness which capitalised on the element of surprise. Even in the few seconds before her head nodded forward, she noticed in puzzlement that the front windscreen was already misting over. She slumped sideways on the seat.

  * * *

  Faith regained consciousness, aware only of being completely unable to move her limbs. It was dark. She was uncomfortably hot and itchy, frightened of she knew not what. Her eyes hadn't adjusted to the faint glimmer of light. She had another go at wriggling free, flexing every muscle in her arms and legs. It was no good. Secure straps she couldn't even see held her body and limbs tightly.

  She panted in the heat and the perspiration ran down her face and neck, and dripped off
her nose. Her head was immobilised by the improvised wooden collar Graver had fastened round her neck. She repeatedly turned her head from side to side to try to catch her chin under her blouse and mop up the wetness dribbling down. It was the only movement she could make. Was it sweat or was it from her mouth?

  The sweat bathing her head caused intolerable patches of itching; it irritated her eyes and made her shiver.

  It was only when she stopped to rest that she became aware of something over and above the quiet – the silky smooth sound of a quadrillion tiny legs moving. A motion so seamless and unerring it lapped every crevice like the incoming tide of a totally becalmed sea, moving upward yet almost without any movement. The slight rustling was the nearest she could come to appreciating the ticking time-bomb of impending attack. For now, the hidden presence only rustled. She sensed something dreadful was about to happen. She couldn't possibly have anticipated the truth. Phalanx upon phalanx of skeletal forms advanced, chained together by the invisible bonding of tapping antennae and interlocking legs.

  * * *

  Faith struggled fiercely against the gag and chains, sweating and shaking. She heard the sound of a voice. It was counting. An invisible man, counting down from sixty. She didn't know why. He was counting while hordes of insects ran out from a hole.

  Faith's eyes were running.

  The invisible person wielded a long pole, shoved it through a hessian sleeve covered in a protective plastic envelope into which he thrust his arm. With this he manipulated a mirror a little above and in front of her. He turned the mirror so she could see her face clearly reflected. The image was so clear she could see the sweat trickling down her face.

  'This mirror.'

  Faith started at the intrusion of the voice.

  'I surprised you. Look up and leftwards, Miss Wistow. Where you see a flash of metallic light, that's the mirror. Here, I'm turning it so you can see your little visitors.'

  Faith gave another jump, this time of pure revulsion.

  The voice came again:

  'I have to alter your hair Miss Wistow and make a tiny scratch on your neck here, like this, only to give a smidgeon of blood. You understand why. They're energetic little bastards but they need a hint of what's on offer.

  'Now, Miss Wistow, a person has at least the veneer of socialisation, which helps create the impression of masses cooperating in an orderly society. But a worker ant is' – he opened the viewing slit a little further, but with the mesh slid across so that not a single insect could escape and make physical contact with his body – 'a savage individual in a crowd of savages. He, or I should say she – the workers are all neutered females, not males, an interesting reversal of the human condition where it is the male who is more violent and homicidal – is a potential anarchist. She shows no emotion, Miss Wistow. She is pitiless.'

  Tens of thousands of them were in place, so many that they bowed every branch down, and couldn't shift their places on the ground without stepping over each other. As if by mental powers alone, they stopped. In fact, it was the almost simultaneous waves of feelers briskly stroking on other feelers and bodies, in an indescribably delicate ballet of intention, which ordered their stillness and made it inevitable. The lack of movement was complete, as devastating as the waves of motion had been. It was the silence of armies holding their breath.

  Like a single slow transpiration, the entire horde advanced. Each occupied only the antenna-space in front; only the gap behind was filled, no less, no more. It was the merest shiver, a trickle of life. But when that slight adjustment multiplies a billion times and is repeated over and over again, its impact becomes gross, devastating, irresistible.

  She was aghast, paralysed by the shock of it. She realised the ants were all over her. Then she moved. Arms flailing like sails on a windmill. But they were pouring off the high branches which overhung her, like thick streams of sticky black treacle. Faster than she could brush and shake them off, fresh lumps of the black crawling masses of insects landed on her, hissing and crackling as they dispersed to find a hold anywhere on her skin or clothing. With mandibles and hooked feet they clung on, resisting with all means the force of her wild movements.

  She screamed. She went on screaming for some minutes after she had nearly lost her mind. Until they had completely filled her mouth, crawling, softly nipping, sucking and stickily suffocating her with blood and saliva, secretions of her own nose and mouth which she was unable to cough completely out. Revolted, she crunched and spat ... until her last breath.

  Chapter 6

  E-mail Robin to Tom:

  Meeting at Research Council very productive, had some v. positive responses. Have met up with people who've just returned from where we're going. Incidentally, they've identified new species coleoptera which cd have value in cosmetics. And some parasites which affect people as well as cattle, so the government out there may be willing to pay to pulverise. What do you think about a bid? Attaching bid and abstracts of research into Dorylus for you as promised. Don't suppose there is much you haven't already seen or heard of.

  R.

  E-mail Tom to Robin:

  Thanks for welcome message. Keep up the good work. You always were great on the PR front, for our unit and for the University! Anyone with sense would make you Ambassador. Pl. send details of those possible research bids. Haven't had time to go through the abstracts in detail yet, but will look forward to them. At first glance some useful stuff. Haven't seen it all before.

  TF.

  E-mail Tom to Robin:

  PS. By the way, problems over budgets. Review of Centre's future role. Such is life.

  Forgot to ask – You remember I mentioned apparatus used in first communication experiments, when we met that day in your office. I still can't track it down. Have you any idea when you last saw it?

  TF.

  Underneath Tom's casual manner there was a seriousness reflecting the make or break situation of the department.

  E-mail Robin to Tom:

  Ambassador, no chance. I'd rather be director of external affairs (not my own though. Only punning!) Sorry to hear about financial probs. Bad luck! Can't change our senior managers – more's the pity – they're the root of our problems! Can't help over apparatus. No precise recollections at all. Old age creeping on I expect, though don't mention pre-senile – what is it? My grandfather died of that. Hereditary I believe. Do ask if there's anything else I can do. Good luck. Pl. bear in mind leaving for Heathrow tomorrow. Will be at least 3 days before arrive destination. Till then no news is good news.

  Ciaow!

  R.

  * * *

  Tom crossed the road from the Station. He looked at his watch. Twelve o'clock. He was in good time as he headed for the homely atmosphere of the Beverley Arms where he was due to meet Mrs or Ms Wistow. He wondered which. He allowed himself the thought that she was an attractive young woman.

  * * *

  Sergeant Brill was venting his feelings. PC Paul Morrison was on the receiving end.

  'You say it arrived through the post this morning? That's five bloody hours. I'm telling you, Constable, another delay like this and you'll be looking for another job. Is that clear?'

  'Sorry, sir. I didn't think it was serious. Written by a nutter.'

  'It's not your job to judge seriousness. It's your job to bring material to the attention of a more senior officer. Plenty of serious crimes are committed by so-called nutters. Now get lost doing something useful.'

  'Sir.'

  Brill took the close-written sheets of paper down the corridor and knocked on Detective Inspector Dave Berringham's half-open door:

  'Don't knock, the door's open.'

  'Sir, if you have a minute I think you'll find this interesting.'

  After Berringham had conveyed to Sergeant Brill the unsatisfactory state of affairs which had led to the note taking several hours to reach his desk, he spent a good twenty minutes reading it. From time to time, he winced as the pains came more sharply, further down in
his abdomen and more to his right side than before. He'd tried ignoring them and using anti-acid remedies from the local pharmacy. He was approaching the point where denial wouldn't work any longer.

  "Killing is dead serious. If you get more than one chance and if you're a perfectionist, practice makes perfect. Close the door, take off the mask and allow space to breathe.

  "How you get to the killing bit. It's like lots of things, one step at a time. I know this thought so well, it's become a part of me, rather than a suggestion coming from my brain, or from somewhere else, inside or outside of me. (The organs of my body are different regions of the colony, all linked by living streams of workers. So I won't be likely to dissolve into component limbs and organs. I have to keep control.)

  "Here's another thought: Despite my meticulous memory, and the diary of course (which must never fall into their hands), I'm not entirely sure at which moment I became the conductor. It was probably when the urge to conduct the performances of other colonies apart from the colony I am, became realisable.

  "I rehearsed some things in my head so many times that when they happened I hardly noticed the slide from thought to action. I went into the kitchen and sat on a stool from which I could reach the controls of the video recorder and the television. Then it was back to the hi-fi, CD player, record and cassette players, all precariously perched on that raffia-woven stool, the one auntie used to sit on when messing about with her calliper. (She had them too, but if I ever asked if it was in the family, with me having some leg trouble, mother would bad mouth and cuff me.) The music on its own couldn't work the magic for me this time. I was too tense – I can't tell you why, not this early in the game. I haven't primed you yet with any of the crucial details about what makes me tick, turns me on, as they say. But, cursing at the bad connections to the speakers balanced on cardboard boxes in the corridor linking the farmhouse to the old dairy, now the ground floor lab. Which would it be – the fourth movement of the Bruckner seventh symphony or the last passages of the Mahler fourth symphony? No, not the Mahler. Too much public exposure means too many stray memories and associations. (I'm very honest and open, so don't go pigeon-holing me as like the rest.) I'll go for the Bruckner tonight.