by Max China
‘And now he’s dead,’ Brody tipped his head towards Fleur, who whimpered softly. ‘Even if she survives, her head’s fucked beyond help. Best thing, when we get done, is put her out of her misery.’
‘Please . . .’ she whispered.
Kotlas’ gaze slipped over her mutilated body, appraising her injuries from a distance. Fisher and the others had bitten her breasts and thighs, semen evident on her face and in her hair. He lingered over her neatly trimmed pubic area before looking away. ‘If you did that, Brody, you’d be no better than they were.’
Brody’s eyes flicked left and right and then bored into the psychiatrist. ‘Do you think I give a shit?’ He shifted his grip on the wrist of the severed arm. ‘Why do you think I’m in here, eh? Because I give a fuck about people?’
Kotlas detected movement. Slow, deliberate, moving low, approaching the inmates from behind. A glimmer of recognition froze in his eyes. His face impassive, he said, ‘It’s never too late to do something good.’
‘Do you know who you’re talking to?’ Brody’s expression grew colder. ‘Do you know what I’ve done? There’s no good in me.’
‘I used to think that about me,’ Kotlas replied.
‘Bullshit!’ Brody thundered. Taking two short paces, he held Fisher’s arm like a club. With a jerk of his head, he signalled the others to join the fray.
Kotlas’ feet shifted, his upper body leaning back. He avoided the blow, snatched the chain, and whirled it around in a tight circle. His timing was out, the intended grip missed, but he instantly improvised. Brody’s head cannoned towards his. Kotlas dodged, delivering an elbow strike hard into the big man’s temple. Brody sneered.
No effect. Dismayed, Kotlas saw Edwards fell one of his attackers, the crack of wood on head registering with him only afterwards. You’re out of sync. Focus. Distraction now his primary aim, he peppered Brody with a flurry of light blows, looking for an opening. Get him off-balance, take him down. Noting the deep laceration the big man had inflicted on his own wrist with his dismembering of Fisher, Kotlas knew attempting to control him through pain would be a problem. To one side of him, Edwards grappled with the last of the cronies who, despite blood flowing freely down his face, attempted to wrestle the guard’s baton from him. He paid for his momentary inattention as Brody clamped a hand around his testicles and squeezed. Kotlas jammed his hand down, fingers hooking, thumb levering, and forced Brody’s digits back. Brody would not relinquish his grip. One of the goliath’s fingers snapped. He squeezed Kotlas harder.
‘Jesus!’ Kotlas cried and jabbed a thumb into Brody’s eye socket.
‘Fucker!’ the big man yelled, one hand covering his injury.
Rubenstein broke from around the corner he’d hidden behind. Kotlas saw something flash in his hand as he covered the distance between himself and the big man. He jabbed a syringe into Brody’s neck, his thumb slipping off as he pressed the plunger home. In the ensuing melee, the cylinder still attached to his neck Brody went wild, slamming Rubenstein with a bone-crunching fist. The older man crashed to the floor. Kotlas held on in desperation as he was swung through the air. Edwards rained blow after meat-thwacking blow down onto the huge head. Too late, Brody switched attention to Edwards’ murderous assault. Released from the iron grip, Kotlas sailed through the air. Twisting and turning like a cat finding its feet, he landed upright in time to see Edwards grabbed and hauled into a spine-crushing bear hug.
Adrenalin numbing his pain, Kotlas focused on the back of Brody’s head. He took three short steps and delivered a blow, driving his fist upwards into the point where the big man’s neck connected with his skull.
Brody staggered around, out on his feet, still locked on to the guard.
Kotlas kicked the back of his knee.
Brody toppled, bringing Edwards down on top of him.
The young psychiatrist surveyed the carnage. ‘We need to check for surviving inmates and get them locked up, quick.’ He glanced from the dormant body of Rubenstein to Fleur and then to Edwards. ‘Where’s the hospital wing?’
Chapter 16
Avon Gorge. 9:52 a.m.
Wolfe climbed the wooded cliffs, drawn to the sound of bells ringing in the distance. Halfway up, he switched from the punishing direct ascent he’d taken to a less arduous one, after discovering a zigzag series of pathways that ran all the way to the top. Panting from exertion, he paused, bent over, hands resting on knees. Two thousand press-ups a day while incarcerated had done nothing for his leg muscles. What’s with those bells? A wedding going on? Could be in line for a piece of bridal cake. Staying close to the treeline, he resumed walking, focused on no other thing or destination.
He scanned the landscape. His eyes swept the sky, confused as much by the pink and green colouration he saw shimmering in the gaps between the clouds as he was the fact that no one appeared to be searching for him. No helicopters, no dogs. Apart from the rhythmic clanging, the world was strangely silent. He breathed deep; the intermittent rain had released a cocktail of earthy smells. A strange kind of energy pulsed in his brain. The climb had cleared the remnants of the drug he’d partially absorbed. Turning his head in the direction of the ringing, he saw the bell tower through a gap in the trees. He gauged the distance. No more than two miles. The thought of champagne amused him. Joining in the celebrations, he’d tell them a maniac was on the loose, to add an element of chaos to the proceedings.
The church appeared deserted, the high-low peals the only sign of life. He loved and hated the sound, and therein lay the attraction. The closer he got to divisions and boundaries, the more he liked it.
The building was medieval, stone-built, under a red clay-tile roof. At one end, louvres had been installed at the top of a three-story crumbling tower to keep birds and bats out. He wondered if the small door on the north elevation was unlocked. The devil’s door. He smiled, gripped the iron ring and turned. Open. He ducked inside and made his way to the tower, the peal of bells ringing in his ears.
Chapter 17
Hilltop Cottage. 9:54 a.m.
The pain in Anderson’s eyelid had transferred into his eyeball, making further reading intolerable. With some reluctance, he postponed finishing the chapter. He’d go for a lie-down until he felt better. Clinging to the balustrade, he trudged upstairs. In the bathroom, he peered at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, running a finger around the extent of the swollen bite. Far worse than any he’d had before. He scowled, and wetting a flannel with cold water, opened his medicine cabinet. He popped out two Nytol tablets from a half-empty sachet. They’d make him woozy, but he positively welcomed the idea of closing his eyes and waking in a couple of hours, the swelling down, the antihistamine having done its stuff.
He dry-swallowed the tablets and grimaced as one lodged in his throat. When will I learn? He turned on the tap, and bending towards it, scooped a palmful of water into his mouth and swallowed. That’s better.
He made his way to the bedroom and lay down. With the cool flannel over his eyes, he contemplated what he’d read in Problem Child so far.
Anderson came to the conclusion that the clairvoyant girl was in many ways just like some of the other disturbed children he and Ryan had treated. Circumstances were one thing, learned behaviour another, but Ryan had become convinced there was a genetic blueprint at work, something programmed in at the start, behaviour patterns transferred through the DNA. A forgotten irritation elbowed itself into his thoughts, turning the sweet chemical taste on his palate sour. Ryan hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him. He kept me out and I’d just accepted it like it was meant to be. His eye throbbed as he struggled to recall details; he traced the swelling to determine if it had spread.
Thoughts from long ago crept into his mind. What’s wrong with your eye? It was a question he’d once asked Ryan, and not long after, the psychiatrist had gone blind in it.
A sense of dread fell upon him.
Words strung out like festoons emerging from the depths of his memories. What yo
u were, you will be again. The words repeated over and over. Anderson wrestled with understanding, and on the cusp of victory, he remembered that Ryan had once hypnotised him without his consent.
Chapter 18
St Michael’s Church. 9:55 a.m.
Wolfe ascended the stairs to the first floor and watched unseen from the doorway into the rope room, amazed at the efforts of the ringers. A man and woman in their fifties, surprisingly agile for their age, managed a rope in each of their hands, pulling the padded length, snatching at and catching the looped ends secured to their wrists, ringing four bells between them. Look at them, he thought, they look like a pair of chimpanzees wandering through the vines high up in the canopy, swinging without travelling.
Sweat poured from the man’s reddened face; the woman was pink, aglow with a light sheen of perspiration.
Wolfe licked his lips. He relished her saltiness.
Up, down, heaving the dirty grey ropes, blackened, almost polished at the ends. He noticed knots tied at intervals. Daylight, penetrating through two vertical cracks at the southeast corner, slashed the worn timber floor and formed a ragged T-shape, illuminating dust and falling detritus.
Wolfe looked up. The beams rocked and creaked an accompanying beat between each note.
‘No one’s coming,’ the man yelled, breathless. ‘I wish Timothy were here; he could jump in and share some duties, be less of a strain.’
‘Are you sure he still lives here?’ the woman shouted.
‘He still sleeps here, I know that much,’ he said. ‘I can’t keep this up much longer.’
‘But we must. How else can we draw attention to what’s happening?’
‘The place is falling down, that’s what’s happening,’ Wolfe shouted, brushing dust from each shoulder as he stepped from the shadows.
The woman, petite and just over five feet tall, watched him warily, but didn’t stop pulling. Wolfe grabbed her rope. The bell’s momentum yanked at his arm. Holding it firm, he stopped it from rising again.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ her companion said. ‘We must warn everyone.’
He grinned. ‘You knew I was coming?’
‘Not you,’ the man snorted. ‘The Antichrist. The world has been plunged into darkness. The work of modern man has ceased to function. Have you not seen the signs?’
‘I was in a dark place, set free to walk in the light.’
The man stopped hauling on the ropes. He stood open-mouthed, registering the gleeful visage framed by long dark hair, the rugged growth of beard and the sheer size of the man before him as if under a spell.
Wolfe sprang forwards and grabbed him by the throat with one hand, hoisting him high. Aware of the woman’s screams, he laughed. Pulling the rope down, he looped it around his victim’s neck twice and yanked towards the floor, simultaneously releasing his captive, who struggled frantically to remove the coils from the base of his skull. The bell rang out. An instant later, the rope’s upward travel snapped the ringer’s neck.
A trickle of urine stained the dead man’s trousers.
‘My God,’ the woman gasped. ‘You’ve killed him!’
Wolfe dragged his attention from the twitching legs of the corpse and turned towards her.
Terrified, she backed up towards the stairs. Wolfe leapt at her. Fear crumpled her legs. She dropped to her knees and prayed.
‘That’s right, pray to your Saviour. Ask him where he is in your hour of need.’
‘Jesus, save me,’ she implored, anguished tears streaking her face.
Wolfe clawed his hand into her fine silvery-blonde hair, twisting a hank of it around his fingers. He lifted her up. Tiny hands sought his, trying to relieve the pressure on her scalp. Holding her firm, his other hand slid down the front of her blouse, into the cup of her bra, pinching the nipple.
‘Don’t,’ she sobbed.
He forced her head back, and staring directly into her eyes, ran his hand down, over the curve of her belly, the buttons of her top popping under the strain. She pleaded, ‘No, please.’
His fingers slid under the waistband of her jeans, down into the front of her pants, over the sweat-moistened tuft of hair. Tears coursing, she whimpered as he probed, slipping his fingers between fleshy lips and plunging them into her dry warmth.
‘You see?’ he leered. ‘It’s not all bad.’
Less than a mile away, Anderson, hovering in the state between sleep and alertness, noticed the bells had stopped ringing.
‘Thank God,’ he muttered, and drifted into a world where dull pain ruled and a giant mosquito stalked the land.
Chapter 19
Priestley police station. 10:15 a.m.
Newly promoted Inspector Tom Emerson strode out of his office and along the corridor, taking the last door on the right into Reception. Sergeant Adams had his back to him, talking with two elderly women. ‘I’m sure the electricity board is working on it even as we speak, ladies. The best thing I can suggest is to keep calm. Go home and put your feet up. You live far from each other?’
‘We’re sisters,’ the tallest one said. ‘We live together.’
‘That’s all right then,’ Adams said. ‘At least you can keep each other company.’
‘We don’t want to miss the EastEnders omnibus; that’s what I’m worried about,’ the shorter sister said.
Emerson cleared his throat theatrically. ‘Any news on this power cut, Sergeant?’
‘Can’t even record it with no electricity,’ one of the women said as they shuffled away from the counter.
Adams watched them leave.
Emerson glowered at him, impatient for an answer. ‘Well?’
‘Not as yet, sir, but I’ll tell you something. If it carries on much longer, we’re going to have problems.’
‘I’ve already got problems.’ Emerson moaned. ‘I’ve only come in today to get a head start on tomorrow. I’ve done all I can that doesn’t involve technology and now I can’t do a thing. Where’s Williams?’
‘I assume he’s either been delayed or he can’t get in. Everyone else turned up before all this happened.’ A rapid series of car horn blasts sounded.
‘The trouble with drivers these days,’ Emerson said. ‘They’ve got no patience.’
‘Have you looked outside, lately, sir?’
Emerson stepped around Adams and peered through the window. ‘There shouldn’t be that many vehicles queuing on a Sunday. What’s with all the traffic?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve heard a hell of a lot of cars broke down earlier and they’re jamming the streets, preventing those that are still running from getting through.’
‘Can’t even call a breakdown service,’ Emerson observed drily. ‘Do we know why?’
Adams shrugged. ‘No, sir.’
‘But you think it’s related?’
‘How can it not be? We had that brilliance in the sky. Then it rained straight after. Now it looks like someone’s playing rainbow-coloured searchlights all over it.’
‘Christ,’ Emerson said. ‘How did I not notice that before?’
Because you’ve got your head up your arse? Adams thought.
‘Do you think it’s to do with global warming?’
‘It isn’t a subject I know much about, sir,’ Adams said, turning his attention to the front door as it opened. ‘But I’ll bet this man coming in now does.’ He leant closer to the hatch. ‘Morning, Professor Young. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
The old man entered the circulation area in front of the station desk, nodded, returning the greeting, and held the door open for a younger man and a woman with a baby in her arms to follow him inside.
‘I’ve got it,’ the young man said, taking hold of the door.
Professor Young walked up, rested an elbow on the counter, and whispered through the glass, ‘There’s something out of the ordinary about this power failure, Mike.’
‘Let the Sergeant deal with the people behind you, professor, and then we can talk,’ Emerson said.
Emerson turned through one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, to face away from the desk. Shit! he mouthed. The day before starting his new role at the station was turning into a disaster. He walked out of reception, turned right into the corridor, and opening the secure lobby door, invited Professor Young inside.
The professor sat across the desk from Emerson, in the inspector’s office. ‘I used to teach the Sergeant, you know.’
‘You don’t look old enough,’ Emerson remarked truthfully.
‘So you’re the new inspector. Tom, isn’t it? I’ve heard all about you.’
‘Really?’ Emerson replied, his irritation undisguised. ‘From Adams?’
‘Good Lord, no.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Not much love lost there, eh? My grandson is a reporter. Nick Summer. Works freelance.’
‘Well, that’s all very nice, but shall we get to the point? You seem to know something about this power cut. If you do, I’d like you to enlighten me.’
Professor Young inhaled. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The Earth has been hit by a solar wind. I can’t tell, in the absence of communications, how widespread the problem is, but I think that given that we have daytime aurorae – that’s Northern Lights – on display here in Bristol, the chances are the whole of the country is affected. Maybe the entire Northern Hemisphere. In a nutshell, the problem isn’t going to disappear in a matter of hours, Tom. We should be making plans for the long haul. Far be it for me to say, but I have to tell you, you’re going to need to get some plans in place to manage the civil unrest that will surely come.’