Lifeforce

by Colin Wilson

  Heseltine’s voice was soothing. “Of course you haven’t, Mr Pryce. No one’s suggesting that you have.”

  The man asked aggressively: “What’s this all about, then?”

  It was Carlsen who sensed the right approach. He had been looking at the photographs on the shelf; in most of them, the man was smiling or laughing with a group of other men. It was the face of an extrovert who disliked being made to feel guilty. Carlsen sat down on a hard-backed chair, where he could look into the man’s face. “Let me be frank with you, Mr Pryce. We need your help, and anything you tell us won’t go beyond this room. We simply want to know what happened with the girl.”

  As he spoke, he placed his hand lightly on the man’s shoulder. The insight was instantaneous and unexpected, as if he had found himself listening in to someone’s telephone conversation. He was in the car, and the scene was familiar, as if in a remembered dream. It was the car park on the edge of the moor; he was reading a newspaper, at first unaware of the girl who sat nearby on a bench. Then the girl was in the car.

  The man said: “What has she done?”

  “She’s done nothing. But we have to trace her. Where did you go when she got into the car?”

  He said unwillingly: “By the reservoir…” Carlsen had a clear, sharp glimpse of the scene: the back seat of the car, the man unable to believe his luck as she allowed his hand to move along the inside of her thigh; then the discovery that she was wearing no underwear.

  “You made love. And what then?”

  There was a thump from overhead. Carlsen could feel Pryce’s relief to know that his wife was still upstairs, not listening at the door.

  “We sat and talked. Then she suggested we should go to a hotel. So we went to Leeds —”

  Carlsen nodded. “To the Europa Hotel. What time did you leave there?”

  “Around seven.”

  “And by that time she’d already left?”

  The man shrugged. “You seem to know it all anyway.”

  The movement caused Carlsen’s hand to fall from his shoulder; the contact was instantly broken. He stood up.

  “Thank you, Mr Pryce. You’ve been very helpful.”

  As they moved to the door, Heseltine asked: “Had you arranged to see her again?”

  The man sighed, then nodded, without speaking. He heaved himself to his feet and accompanied them to the door. As he opened it, he looked direct into Carlsen’s face. “I suppose you blame me. But it’s not often a man gets a piece of luck like that.”

  Carlsen said, smiling: “But if you’ll pardon me saying so, she seems to have exhausted you.”

  The man grinned; for a moment there was a flash of genuine good humour. “It was worth it.”

  As they walked back to the Grasshopper, Heseltine asked: “Do you think it was?”

  “What?”

  “Worth it?”

  “From his point of view, yes. She’s drained his energy, but he’ll recover in a couple of days. It’s no worse than a bad hangover.”

  “And it won’t do any permanent damage?”

  “If you mean do I think he’ll become a vampire, the answer is no.”

  Fallada asked quickly: “What makes you say that?”

  “I… I don’t know. I just feel it. I can’t tell you how I know.”

  Heseltine looked at him curiously but said nothing.

  The sergeant was studying an ordnance survey map. “I’ve just been on to this loony bin over the radiophone, sir. I reckon it must be those lights you can see on the top of that hill.” He pointed into the distance.

  Heseltine looked at his watch. “We’d better get over there. It’s getting late.”

  Less than four minutes later, the searchlight of the Grasshopper picked out the massive grey building on the hilltop. As they approached, the lights began to go out. Fallada said: “Ten o’clock. Bedtime for the inmates.”

  The lawn in front of the hospital remained illuminated by a floodlight. As they sank quietly towards it on a cushion of air, Heseltine asked: “Is it safe to land? Shan’t we set off the radar alarms?”

  “He’s already switched them off, sir. I said we’d arrive around ten.”

  As they touched down, the main door opened; a bulky shape stood outlined against the light from the hallway. Heseltine said: “I think that must be the Superintendent — the man I spoke to. He struck me as a bit of a clown.” As they descended onto the grass, he said in Fallada’s ear: “Incidentally, he claims to be a great admirer of yours.”

  Fallada said mildly: “I hope the two are not connected.”

  The man came towards them. “Well, this is a great honour, Commissioner, a very great honour… I’m Dr Armstrong.”

  His bulk was immense; Carlsen guessed he must have weighed at least three hundred pounds. He was clad in a loose grey suit of a type that had been unfashionable for twenty years. The voice was fruity and cultured: an actor’s voice.

  Heseltine shook his hand. “It’s most kind of you to receive us so late. This is Dr Hans Fallada. And Commander Olof Carlsen.”

  Armstrong passed a fat hand across the fluffy mass of grey hair. “I’m quite overwhelmed! So many famous guests, and all at once!” As he shook hands, Carlsen noticed that his teeth were enormous and tobacco-stained.

  Armstrong led them into the hall. The smell of violet-perfumed furniture polish overlaid a ranker odour: of sweat and stale cooking. Armstrong talked all the time, the rich, mellifluous voice echoing in the bare hallway. “I’m so sorry my wife’s not here to receive you. She’ll be green with envy. She’s visiting relatives in Aberdeen. This way, please. What about your pilot? Isn’t he coming in?”

  “He’ll stay out there for now. He can watch the television news.”

  “I’m afraid this place is dreadfully untidy.” Carlsen observed that the door to his private quarters was lined with metal. “I’m looking after myself at the moment… Ah, George, are you still there?”

  A good-looking youth with a cast in one eye and a vacant stare said: “Nearly finished.”

  “Well, leave it till morning. You should be back in your quarters. But before you go, bring in some ice from the fridge.” As the man ambled out he said in a whisper: “One of our trusties. A delightful boy.”

  Carlsen said: “What is he in for?”

  “Killing his little sister. Jealousy, you know. Please sit down, gentlemen. You will have a whisky, won’t you?”

  “Thank you.”

  Fallada noticed the open magazine by the armchair. He said: “Ah, you’ve been reading my piece on vampirism.”

  “Oh, of course. I’ve kept all four articles from the BPJ . Absolutely masterly! You should write a book about it.”

  “I have.”

  “Really? How fortunate! I’m longing to read it.” He handed Fallada a tumbler half full of whisky. “It’s all so true. My wife drains me dry.” He smiled, to indicate that he should not be taken too seriously. “Soda?”

  The youth had placed a dish of ice cubes on the table. Armstrong said: “Good boy. Now off to bed. Good night’s rest!”

  As the door closed, Fallada said: “Suppose he walks out of the front door instead?”

  “He wouldn’t get far. This place has batteries of electronic alarms.”

  “What if he let some of the dangerous prisoners out?”

  “Impossible. They’re locked in separate cells.” He sat down. “Well, gentlemen, to your health! I can hardly believe you’re really here!” Carlsen observed that sheer enthusiasm made his unctuous personality rather likable. “I hope you’ll stay the night.”

  Heseltine said: “Thank you, but we’ve booked into the Continental in Huddersfield.”

  “You can easily cancel.”

  Fallada said thoughtfully: “That might be an idea. We’ve got to come back in the morning.”

  “Excellent! Then let’s regard it as settled. The beds are made up in the orderlies’ wing. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Heseltine leaned forward. “You’ve
been reading Fallada’s article on vampirism. Do you believe that real vampires exist?”

  As he spoke, Carlsen observed the sinking feeling, as if falling backwards into a void. The voices became distant; instead, there was emptiness, the cold of space. He felt the energy draining from him, as if someone had opened a vein and allowed the blood to run. Again, he was aware of the agony and bewilderment on the derelict, and of the answering misery and tension in the alien that now sucked his energy. The room became unreal, as if a thin silver screen, like a waterfall, had been interposed in front of his eyes. He was drifting downward, like a leaf falling from a high tree. At the same time, he experienced a sexual tingle in the muscles of his belly and in the flesh of his loins. For a moment he relaxed, enjoying it, then made an effort to resist. The loss of energy ceased immediately. But now he was feeling heavy and tired. The alien was still draining his energy, now only a token amount. With mild astonishment, he realised that she was unaware of his physical proximity. Distance made no difference to them; a million miles or fifty yards: it was all the same.

  He became aware of Armstrong’s voice, and for a moment was frozen with astonishment at the incredible things he was saying. Then he realised that Armstrong was not actually saying them. He was speaking about one of his patients, but the inflections of the voice revealed his deepest thoughts and feelings. It seemed to Carlsen that the Superintendent of Thirlstone was some huge, soft-bodied creature, floating in the psychic bloodstream of his criminal lunatic asylum like a jellyfish or Portuguese man-of-war in a warm sea. His nature was multi-sexual; not merely attracted to men or women but to all creatures with a pulse of life. The disturbing thing was the deep, unsatisfied voracity of his longings. He was drawn to the inmates under his charge with an enormous, prurient curiosity. In his imagination, he had committed violations that surpassed all their crimes. One day, when his sense of reality had weakened, he might finally commit a sadistic crime. But at the moment he was all caution, with the instinct of a hunted animal.

  Armstrong was saying: “Her name’s Ellen, not Helen. Ellen Donaldson. She’s been in charge of the female staff for the past two years.”

  Heseltine asked: “Isn’t it dangerous for women to work here?”

  “Not as dangerous as you might think. Besides, women are rather good for the male patients. They’re a soothing influence.”

  Carlsen said: “Could I see her?” They all looked at him in surprise.

  Armstrong said: “Of course. I don’t suppose she’s in bed yet. I’ll ask her to come over.”

  Carlsen said: “No. I mean alone.”

  There was a silence. Fallada said: “Is that a good idea?”

  “I’ll be safe enough. I’ve met her before and survived.”

  “You’ve met her?” Armstrong was surprised.

  Heseltine said: “He means the alien.”

  “Ah, of course.” Carlsen could read his thoughts. Armstrong thought they were all slightly mad, or at least thoroughly confused. His certainty gave him a sense of superiority. His total absorption in his own desires and emotions made him incredulous of anything beyond his own limited understanding.

  Fallada said: “Why do you want to see her now? Why not wait until morning?”

  Carlsen shook his head. “They’re most active in the night. It’s better now.”

  Heseltine nodded. “Yes. You could be right. But listen. Take this.” He handed Carlsen a small plastic box, two inches square. He pressed the button in the centre; immediately, a high-pitched buzz sounded from the pocket of his jacket. “If you need us, press this. We’ll be with you in seconds.” He released the button, and the noise stopped.

  Carlsen asked: “Where is she?”

  Armstrong heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll take you.” He led Carlsen out of the main door, along a gravel path by the edge of the lawn, through a walled garden with a lily pond, to a closed gate. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the gate. Carlsen could see a long, low building with outside lights over each front door. “That’s the nurses’ quarters. Nurse Donaldson is in the one at the end, number one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hadn’t I better come and introduce you?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Very well. The gate opens from the other side without a key. If you’re not back in half an hour, we’ll come and look for you.” His voice indicated he was joking, but there was an undertone of seriousness.

  The gate closed behind him. Carlsen walked to the porch of the first chalet and rang the bell. A woman’s voice answered through the loudspeaker: “Who is it?”

  He leaned and spoke into it. “My name is Carlsen. I’d like to speak to you.”

  He expected more questions, but the speaker went dead. A moment later, the door was opened. The woman who stood there looked at him with curiosity and without fear. “What is it you want?”

  “Can I come in and speak to you?”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Dr Armstrong brought me.”

  “Come in.” She stood aside and let him past. She closed the door behind him, then went to an inter-communicating screen.

  A moment later, Armstrong’s voice said: “Hello?”

  “I have a Mr Carlsen here. Did you know?”

  “Yes. I brought him. That is Commander Carlsen.”

  “I see.” She switched off. While she had been speaking, he had been standing near the door, looking at her. He was disappointed. For some reason he had expected her to be beautiful. The reality was oddly commonplace. She was a woman of about thirty-five, and the skin of her face was coarse. The figure had been shapely but was now beginning to spread. He noted that the hem of the green woollen dress was lopsided.

  “What did you want to see me about?” Her voice had a ring of mechanical efficiency, like a telephone operator. For a moment he wondered if he had made a mistake.

  “May I sit down?” She shrugged and indicated the armchair. He wanted an excuse to touch her, but she was too far away. He said: “I wanted to ask you about the man you spent the afternoon with — Mr Pryce.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. Show me your hand.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Show me your hand.”

  She was standing, pressed back against the edge of a small table by the wall. Then, suddenly, there was contact. They were playing a game, and both knew the rules. She stood staring at him, then came forward very slowly. He reached out and took both her hands. The energy flow was like an electric spark. She swayed, and he stood up to steady her. The energy was flowing out of her, into him.

  He looked down at her face; her stare was glassy. As clearly as if she had spoken, he felt the unformulated comment. He gripped her tightly by her bare arms. “What’s his name?”

  She was leaning against him. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll hurt you.”

  He squeezed her arms. She shook her head again. Deliberately, as if making a move in chess, he held her away from him and slapped her face. She shook her head again.

  There was a knock at the door. It made him start, but she seemed to hear nothing. He said: “Who is it?” There was another knock. He lowered the woman into a chair, then went to the door. It was Fallada.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course. Come in.”

  Fallada came into the room and saw the woman. He said: “Good evening.” Then he looked at Carlsen. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Carlsen sat on the arm of her chair. Her face was red where he had slapped it, and tears were running down her face.

  “Nothing wrong.” He sensed Fallada’s question. “She’s quite harmless.”

  “Can she hear us?”

  “Probably. But she’s not interested. She’s like a hungry child.”

  “Hungry?”

  “She wa
nts me to hurt her.”

  Fallada said: “Are you serious?”

  “Quite. You see, when she’s possessed by the alien, she sucks energy from her victims. But she gives it all away again. She’s like a woman who steals for her lover. Now, if I take energy from her” — he placed his hand on her arm — “she responds automatically. She’s conditioned to giving.”

  “Are you taking energy now?”

  “A little, enough to keep her semiconscious. If I stop, she’ll wake up.”

  “Like the girl last night — Miss Bengtsson?”

  “Yes. But with her, it was just a normal desire for surrender. This one is far worse. She’d like to be completely destroyed.”

  “Totally masochistic?”

  “Quite.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to leave her alone?”

  “When I’ve found out what I want to know: the name of the prisoner who’s taking her energy.”

  Fallada knelt in front of the woman and raised her eyelid. She looked at him indifferently; she was interested only in Carlsen.

  “Can’t you read her mind?”

  “She’s resisting. She doesn’t want to tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve told you. She wants me to force her to tell me.”

  Fallada stood up. “Would you like me to leave?”

  “There’s no need — if you don’t mind waiting. This gives me no pleasure.” He said to the woman: “Stand up.”

  She stood up slowly, a smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. Carlsen put his arms round her. He noticed that she winced as his left hand pressed her back. He said: “Tell me his name?” She shook her head, smiling. He pressed her back again. She gasped and writhed against him, then shook her head again.

  Fallada said: “What’s hurting her?”

  “I don’t know.” Carlsen took hold of the zipper and pulled it down to the waist. The dress parted. The flesh of her back was scored with scratches.

  Fallada looked more closely. “They’re fresh. A souvenir of her lover today.”

  Carlsen could feel the energy flowing through the bare flesh where his hands touched. He started to pull the dress forward off her shoulders. Fallada said: “What are you doing?”