Lifeforce

by Colin Wilson

  “If you don’t want to watch, go into the other room.”

  Fallada said: “Not at all. I am a natural voyeur.”

  Carlsen pulled the dress downwards, and allowed it to fall around her feet. She was wearing a bra and panties that were held at the waist by a small safety pin. Her arms now moved around Carlsen’s neck. He held her close against him, feeling the warmth of naked flesh radiating through his clothes. He wanted to remove his own clothes for closer contact, but was inhibited by Fallada’s presence. With one hand against her buttocks, the other on the torn skin between her shoulder blades, he pressed her tightly against him. She winced; then, as he pressed his mouth against hers, she suddenly abandoned herself. The vitality flowed into him through her lips, the tips of her breasts, and the pubic region.

  Fallada cleared his throat. “It’s incredible. Her back is becoming paler…”

  She freed her mouth to say: “Now. Now.”

  Fallada said: “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer me to go?”

  Carlsen ignored him. He did as she asked, brutally draining her energy as if intent on destroying her. He felt the glow of her body as she writhed against him, and the pressure of her arms almost stifled his breath. Her thighs and hips ground against him. Then her grip relaxed, and her knees buckled. Suddenly, her mind was no longer closed.

  Fallada helped him to prevent her from falling. Carlsen picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. There was a pink-shaded lamp, and the bedsheets were turned back. He laid her on the bed. Fallada, standing in the doorway, said: “That is the first time I have ever known a woman to reach orgasm in the upright position. Kinsey would have been fascinated.”

  Carlsen pulled the bedclothes over her. Tendrils of hair were plastered over her forehead with perspiration. A dribble of saliva was running down the side of her mouth. He switched off the light and backed quietly out of the bedroom.

  It was starting to rain as they left the house, a fine drizzle blown on the wind that came from the moorland. The air had the sweet smell of broom and heather. Carlsen was startled by the sensation of delight that ran through his body like electricity. And then, as if cut off by a switch, it stopped. He was puzzled, but a moment later had forgotten it.

  Fallada said: “And you still didn’t find out what you wanted to know.”

  “I found out enough.”

  The lawn was now in darkness; they could see the shape of the Grasshopper, outlined by its phosphorescent paint. From the row of long, low buildings opposite, a man crossed the lawn towards them. Armstrong’s voice said: “Is everything satisfactory?”

  Carlsen said: “Fine, thanks.”

  “Your sergeant has decided to retire to bed. You’re over there, by the way, the three end rooms.” He pointed to the lighted buildings.

  He inserted a key and opened the front door; the hall was now lit only by a blue night light. Heseltine was walking up and down the room. He said: “Good, I was beginning to worry.” He told Armstrong: “There’s been an awful racket coming from upstairs — someone screaming.”

  Armstrong said imperturbably: “Many of the inmates suffer from nightmares.”

  Carlsen said: “If I described one of the inmates to you, do you think you could tell me who it is?”

  “Probably. If I couldn’t, the chief nurse could.”

  “This is a big man — over six feet. He has a large nose — rather beaky — and red hair with a bald spot…”

  Armstrong interrupteed. “I know him. That’s Reeves — Jeff Reeves.”

  Fallada said: “The child killer?”

  “That’s the man.”

  Carlsen said: “Could you tell me about him?”

  Armstrong said: “Well… he’s been in here for, oh, five years. He’s rather subnormal — I.Q. of a child of ten. And he committed most of his crimes at the time of the full moon — four murders and about twenty sexual assaults. It took them two years to catch him — his mother was shielding him.”

  Fallada said: “If I remember rightly, he claimed he was possessed by the devil.”

  “Or some kind of demon.” Armstrong turned to Carlsen. “If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get his description?”

  “From the nurse — Ellen Donaldson.”

  “Couldn’t she tell you his name?”

  “I didn’t ask her.”

  Armstrong shrugged; Carlsen sensed his suspicion that they were keeping something from him.

  Heseltine asked: “Is this man with the other prisoners?”

  “Not at the moment. He becomes violent at the full moon. And since it’s the full moon tomorrow, he’s in a cell of his own at the moment.”

  Heseltine asked Carlsen: “Do you want to see him tonight?”

  Carlsen shook his head. “It’s best to wait until tomorrow. They’re less active during the daytime.”

  Armstrong said: “Would you like me to send for Lamson, the head nurse? He might be able to tell us whether Reeves has shown any signs of… vampirism.” The irony was scarcely perceptible.

  Carlsen said: “There’s no need. He wouldn’t have noticed anything — except, possibly, that Reeves is slightly less stupid than usual.”

  Armstrong said: “Then by all means let us ask. I’m intensely curious.”

  Carlsen shrugged. Armstrong interpreted this as permission, and pressed a button on the I.C.S. He said: “Lamson, would you mind coming over here?”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Heseltine said: “I still don’t understand why this alien should choose a subnormal criminal. Surely she… it… could choose anybody?”

  Carlsen said: “No. To choose a criminal — particularly a criminal psychopath — is almost like moving into an empty house. Besides, this man already believed he was possessed by a devil. He wouldn’t find anything strange in being possessed by a vampire.”

  “But what about this nurse — Donaldson? I presume she’s not a criminal?”

  “It’s not a matter of criminality so much as of a split personality.”

  Fallada nodded. “That’s an axiom of psychology. Anyone who is at the mercy of powerful subconscious urges has a feeling of being two people.”

  Armstrong said smoothly: “If you’re suggesting that Ellen Donaldson is suffering from severe personality dissociation, I can only say that I’ve never noticed it.”

  As Fallada started to reply, Carlsen said: “It didn’t have to be a severe personality disorder. She’s sexually frustrated. She has strong sexual drives and no husband. She also feels that she’s no longer able to attract males. So when this creature satisfies her deepest sexual urges, she asks no questions…”

  There was a knock at the door. Armstrong opened it. A powerful man with the build of a weight lifter came in. His eyes gleamed with interest and recognition as he saw Fallada and Carlsen.

  Armstrong laid a hand on his shoulder. His voice was caressing as he said: “This is my invaluable aide and chief assistant, Fred Lamson. Fred, these gentlemen are interested in Reeves.” Lamson nodded; he was obviously hoping to be introduced, but Armstrong had no intention of prolonging the interview more than necessary. Carlsen noted with amusement how Armstrong’s attempt at camaraderie was spoiled by impatience and snobbery. “Tell me, Fred, have you noticed anything different about Reeves in the past few weeks?”

  Lamson shook his head slowly. “No.”

  Armstrong smiled. “Nothing at all? Thank you, Fred.”

  Lamson refused to be hurried. “I was going to say, not in the past few weeks . But in the past couple of days, he’s not been his usual self.”

  “In what way?” Armstrong was unable to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “Oh, I couldn’t really put my finger on it —”

  Carlsen said: “Did he strike you as more alert?”

  Lamson massaged his close-cropped hair. “I suppose that’s it… I’ll tell you one thing. The others are a bit inclined to bully him when he’s quiet. But I notice they’ve been keeping out of his way for the past co
uple of days.”

  Armstrong said: “But that’s because it’s getting close to the full moon.”

  Lamson shook his head stubbornly. “No. I’ve seen that plenty of times. He gets all tense and nervous near the full moon. But he’s different this time. It’s like this gentleman says — he seems more alert.”

  Fallada said: “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

  “Can’t say I have. They’re more likely to go the other way.”

  Armstrong said: “But he’s in solitary now?”

  “Well, yes, because we always put him in solitary at this time. But in my opinion, he didn’t really need it this time. He just didn’t strike me as… as…”

  As he groped for words, Armstrong cut in peremptorily: “Thank you, Fred. That’s all we wanted to know. You can go now.”

  Observing the big man’s suppressed irritation, Carlsen said: “You’ve been very helpful indeed. Thank you.”

  “Not at all, sir.” Lamson smiled at them and went out.

  Carlsen said: “A point worth noticing. The alien doesn’t wish to attract attention. But it doesn’t realise that a psycopath’s personality changes at the time of the full moon. And so it attracts attention, after all.”

  Fallada asked Armstrong: “Are you beginning to find it easier to believe in vampires?”

  Armstrong said evasively: “It’s strange… very strange.”

  Carlsen yawned and stood up. “I think I’d like to go to bed.” Under normal circumstances, he would have been slightly overawed by Armstrong; now, able to perceive directly the underlying meanness of spirit, the vanity combined with a craving for admiration, he felt unable to control his distaste.

  “Won’t you have a nightcap first?”

  Heseltine followed Carlsen’s lead. “We’re all tired. We ought to get to bed.”

  Carlsen said: “This man Reeves. What time does he eat breakfast?”

  “At about eight o’clock, usually.”

  “Would it be possible to dose his food with a tranquilliser — a mild sedative?”

  “I imagine so. If you think it necessary.”

  “Thank you.”

  He accompanied them to the door. In the hall, they met Lamson coming downstairs. Armstrong asked: “Where have you been?”

  “Just checking on Reeves, sir. What you said made me think —”

  Carlsen asked: “Did he see you?”

  “Oh, he was awake, wide awake.”

  They crossed the darkened lawn, Fallada walking ahead with Lamson. Carlsen said: “It’s a pity he had to do that.”

  Heseltine shrugged. “Why? It must be fairly normal to check on the prisoners last thing at night.”

  “I’m not sure… Anyway, it’s too late to worry now.”

  Their three rooms were next to one another. Sergeant Parker had moved their bags in from the Grasshopper. Carlsen was in his pyjamas when there was a knock on his door. Fallada came in, a bottle in his hand. “Feel like a final whisky before bed?”

  “That’s a good idea.” He found glasses in the bathroom.

  Fallada had removed his jacket and loosened his tie. They clinked glasses before drinking. Fallada said: “I was fascinated by your remarks about split personalities. You really believe these things can’t take over a healthy person by force?”

  Carlsen, seated on the bed, shook his head. “I didn’t say that. They could probably take over anybody by force and guile. But they’d need to virtually destroy a healthy person. That’s probably why they had to destroy the early victims — like Clapperton.”

  Fallada said: “And the Prime Minister?”

  “I… just don’t know. It’s hard to believe, and yet… there’s something about him.” He frowned into his glass. “It’s something about all politicians — a kind of ability for double-think. They can’t afford to be as honest as most people. They’ve got to be smooth and evasive.”

  “Statesmanlike is the word you’re looking for.”

  “I suppose so. I’ve noticed the same thing about a lot of clergymen — the feeling they’re professional liars. Or at least self-deceivers.” He suddenly became more animated. “Yes, that’s what I mean. It’s the self-deceivers who’d make the easiest prey for vampires. People who won’t let the left side of the mind know what the right side’s doing. And that’s the feeling I’ve got with Jamieson. He’s the kind of person who wouldn’t even know when he was being sincere.”

  They sat in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Fallada drained his whisky. He said: “What are we to do if these things are indestructible? If there’s no way of forcing them to leave the earth?” When Carlsen was silent, Fallada said: “We’ve got to face that possibility. The world’s full of criminal psychopaths. Every time we caught up with one, they could move on to another. Don’t you agree?”

  Again, Carlsen experienced the flash of insight, followed immediately by a sense of confusion, as if looking into a fog. He said: “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  Fallada stood up. “You’re tired. I’ll let you get some sleep.” He paused, his hand on the door handle. “But think about this. Isn’t there any possibility of establishing some kind of understanding with these creatures? We know now they don’t have to destroy people to get their nourishment. Look at that man Pryce. I got the impression he enjoyed giving his energy. He’d do it all over again for a chance of another afternoon in bed with that girl… It’s worth bearing in mind.”

  Carlsen smiled. “All right. I promise I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Fallada said: “Sleep well. I’m in the next room if you need me.”

  He went out quietly. Carlsen crossed to the door and pressed the locking catch. He heard Fallada go into the room next door, then the sound of water in the wash basin. He climbed into bed and switched off the light. Fallada was right: he was tired. But when he closed his eyes, he experienced a strange sensation of duality. Part of him was lying in the bed, thinking about what he had to do the next day, and a part of him was detached, looking down on himself as if on a stranger. It was a cold, alien sensation. Then he felt his physical body sinking towards sleep, while the detached mind watched indifferently. A moment later he lost consciousness.

  The awareness that returned was like floating upwards through dark water. He lay there, half asleep, surrounded by a warmth that was like the security of the womb. It was a deep, blissful relaxation, accompanied by a sense of timelessness. It was then that he realised the alien was there. She seemed to be beside him in the bed: the slim blonde girl whom he had last seen in the Space Research building. She was wearing some kind of thin garment, a gauzy material. He was sufficiently awake to think: this is impossible; this body was left behind in Hyde Park. She shook her head, smiling. Since he knew that his eyes were closed, he recognised that she was some kind of dream. Yet, unlike a dream, she seemed to possess duration and a certain reality.

  Her hands reached inside the pyjama jacket, touching his solar plexus with the cool fingertips. He experienced a stir of desire. The hand tugged at the pyjama cord, then moved inside the trousers. At the same time, her mouth pressed against his; the tip of her tongue prized his lips apart. His arms lay by his side; he seemed unable to move them. Again, he tried to determine whether he was dreaming, and was unable to decide.

  She was not speaking to him, but her feelings were being communicated direct. She was offering herself, telling him that he had only to take her. As her fingers moved over his body, his nerves flared into points of intensity like crystals reflecting the sunlight. He had never experienced a physical pleasure of such intensity. Again he tried to move his arms. His body seemed paralysed, inert.

  He felt her head bending; the tip of her tongue ran over his neck, then across his chest. The pleasure reached an intensity that was almost painful. She seemed to be telling him: the body is unimportant; it is the mind that can experience freedom. Everything in him expressed affirmation.

  It struck him suddenly that his mind, like his body, had
reached a point of total passivity; his will had vanished. He was aware only of her will and its power to mould him. This produced a sudden uneasiness, a nervous withdrawal. He felt her impatience, a flash of imperious anger. Her attitude seemed to change. Instead of offering herself, transforming herself into a unified caress, she was ordering him not to be a fool. It aroused a memory he had forgotten for more than thirty years: a female cousin trying to persuade him to exchange a toy dog for a teddy bear. She had become angry and shaken him by the arms. Now, as then, the pressure aroused a sullen resistance. At the same time, he knew that if she returned to persuasion, he would give way. She held all the cards. Except one. Her own anger was impossible to control. She hated to be thwarted. He caught a glimpse of a sour abyss of frustration. He struggled to push her away. Then she was no longer caressing him but holding him tight, her mouth suddenly voracious. He had an illusion of being held by an octopus that had wrapped its tentacles around his limbs; the beak was seeking his throat. Terror burned his nerves, and he struggled violently. She held him a moment longer to prove her strength, but the murderous anger had cooled.

  Although he was now fully awake, he was still unable to move. The fear had left him drained; he no longer had strength to fight. He could still experience her thoughts and feelings, and now he was able to grasp what had prevented her from killing him. His fear had aroused memories: of creatures struggling for life, drawn into the greedy vortex. Then she had remembered: for the time being, no one must die. It would wreck their plans. Even if she took over his body, it would be impossible to maintain the deception for long. Fallada would know the difference; so would his wife and children. He had to remain alive.

  He became aware of a new kind of pressure. Now there was no longer someone in bed with him. He was sufficiently awake to know that there never had been. His pyjama jacket was still buttoned; the cord at the waist still tied. And the alien was no longer a woman. She had become a sexless creature, an “it.” And it was outside him, trying to enter his body. His mental defences were closed, like hands covering his face; it was trying to force its way past the hands, to spread-eagle his will and force its way into his essential being. It was as cold and brutal as rape. He wanted to cry out, but he knew this would relax his guard.