by Guy N Smith
‘My God!’ If there had been a chair handy she would have slumped down on to it but the hallway was unfurnished.
‘He’ll hunt us down, too, you and me.’ Morton clasped a hand to his head. ‘Wipe the slate clean and call it a day. A disaster but nobody will ever know. We’ve got to leave, Ann.’
It could have been a trick, she did not rule out that possibility. Morton was an actor, she had seen that more than once in the past but he had never lost his composure before. Up against the wall now, a firing squad cocking their rifles and he was starting to plead for mercy. She felt both contempt and pity for him; in the Department you made your bed and you lay on it. Once you signed on the dotted line you committed your life, your soul, to them and they held you to it. He had reminded her of that only the other day, now he had discovered the implications for himself.
‘I told you it was all over between us, Tony,’ she spoke coldly, saw how her words hit him, the turmoil of mental agony that was seething like a cauldron in that brilliant brain.
‘Okay, that’s fair enough.’ Subdued tones, the bitter disappointment of a vanquished last hope. ‘I accept that, but I owe it to you to save you. We can get away if we go now, before they suspect.’
‘Sorry, I’m not leaving,’ she said.
‘Because of Beebee?’
You bastard, you’re trying to salvage something for yourself out of this! ‘Perhaps.’
‘They’ll get him, anyway. You’ll die with him if you stay in the camp.’
‘And in the meantime you’ll save your own skin and leave us to our fate, throw us to the lions!’ Her contempt was unveiled, the time for deceit was over.
‘I want you, Ann.’ He took a step forward and she backed away. ‘You’re all I ever wanted.’
‘Don’t you dare touch me, Tony.’
‘All right, let’s talk. But not here, it’s too dangerous, they know all about your relationship with Beebee.’
‘So you did tell them?’
‘No, I swear to you. I tried to cover, but it’s no good where they’re concerned. Walls, literally, have ears. Commander knows.’
‘He told you?’
‘He didn’t need to. I just know that he knows. Ann, please, let’s talk. Back at my place, if you won’t leave with me now.’
‘All right.’ She had to play for time, he was desperate. He only had to summon Security, shop her. It would give him breathing space as well as revenge. The borderline between genius and insanity was dangerously narrow and she knew that Tony Morton was hovering on the brink. ‘We’ll talk but I don’t promise anything.’
He nodded, seemed relieved. She picked up her handbag and followed him out through the door.
There was an atmosphere of unease in the luxury apartment, Ann sensed it the moment they entered. The comfortable love nest of a short time ago had become sinister, a place of disquiet.
‘Drink?’ He opened the door of the cocktail cabinet.
‘I’d prefer coffee, I think it would be better for both of us. I’ll make it.’
She went into the small kitchen, more familiar surroundings, and switched the kettle on. She heard the squeak of springs as he sank into an armchair in the adjoining lounge; a brief respite. She was trembling, was anxious about Jeff. By now he would be frantic, he would surely come searching for her. What would he do when he discovered her chalet empty? That was the worrying part. Flee, Jeff, whilst you still can. She knew he wouldn’t.
She filled two cups, added milk, hesitated. A dilemma, the most traumatic of her life, thrust upon her without warning. Her fingers shook as she unclipped the clasp on her handbag, a click that echoed like the cocking of a revolver. Fumbling inside, scrabbling until she found what she was looking for. Afraid and desperate, not just for herself but for Jeff.
Ann knew that she had no alternative.
‘Where are you thinking we might go?’ Ann handed him a cup of coffee, noted how he slopped some in the saucer.
‘Abroad.’ There was an unmistakable note of hope in his reply and he gave her a surprised look. ‘Switzerland, I think. I’ve got a villa in France but they know about that. We might be safe in Switzerland, though. I’ve got some money in a bank account in Geneva so we’d be all right. We’d have to cover our tracks pretty thoroughly. Time isn’t on our side.’
‘I see.’
‘You’ve decided to come with me, then?’
‘I’m thinking about it. I’d need to collect some things together.’
‘There’ll be no time for that. Just our passports, I’ve got enough money to get us to Switzerland. But we’ll have to get a move on. As soon as they realise, they’ll notify Interpol, we’ll be arrested on some trumped-up charge and that’ll be the last anybody’ll ever hear of us. The Service has worldwide contacts, there is a squad of cosmopolitan Mulimans. We’ll be on the run, in hiding.’
‘For the rest of our lives?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’ve nothing to run for, Tony. Stay here and they’ll look after you. The fact that the antidote doesn’t work is mere supposition on your part.’
‘It hadn’t worked on the Evanses when I checked them,’ he replied. ‘It should have shown signs even though it might take several days to become fully effective. My tests showed that their system was rejecting it. It’s like candling an egg out of an incubator, you know if there’s an embryo there, if there isn’t it won’t hatch if you leave it there for evermore. I know, I worked on the bloody formula.’
‘Even if it doesn’t work they’ll hardly put you up against a wall.’
‘It’s me, not them, I’m thinking about,’ he snapped. ‘People are going to die needlessly, already have. Without me there would be no C-551, nobody would ever have thought of it. I discovered it accidentally, it escalated from there. Those who have died are already on my conscience, there will be many more.’
‘I never guessed you had a conscience.’ She was watching him closely.
‘I didn’t have, until … until that chairlift killing. Two girls, a young father, nothing to do with the experiment at all. They just got caught up in it. Tong poked his nose in, paid the penalty. We’ve been playing around with human emotions, that was permissible in my book, but not lives. Commander doesn’t see it that way, though. He’s a machine, the engine that drives the Department. You wouldn’t think a government could do this to its electorate, would you? I mean, those who got killed probably helped to, vote them into power. Sort of suicide, vote for death. And this bloody party will probably get voted in for a second term of office. So cynical. I don’t want to be part of it any longer. I’ve done my share of the damage. Like the guy who discovered myxomatosis, he cracked under the strain and went into a monastery. You don’t realize until it’s too late.’
She almost pitied him. He sat there, holding an empty cup, staring straight ahead of him, immersed in his own thoughts. She waited. His eyes closed for a second or two, opened again. He looked very tired.
‘They … mustn’t find us,’ he spoke after some considerable time and her pulses raced at the sound of his slurring speech. Barely detectable but it was there. It might just have been tiredness.
‘Who?’ Ann held her breath.
He seemed to be struggling, wrestling with his own mind, like waking from a deep sleep and trying to remember recent events. ‘Your husband …’A vacant expression. ‘I mean, we don’t want a scandal, do we? A dirty weekend’s fine until you get found out.’ Morton laughed, it sounded hollow.
‘They won’t find us here,’ she assured him, took his empty cup and saucer. ‘You just relax, Tony. Everything’s fine. Are you going to divorce your wife?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You did promise. After all, we’re supposed to be getting married when everything’s sorted itself out.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ A hurried assurance, he was very confused, playing for time. ‘I do love you … Ann?’ As though he wasn’t sure of her name.
She
pretended not to notice, fought to keep the elation out of her voice. ‘I know you do, Tony, but all this has been a tremendous strain on you. Affairs always are. Now, you’re nice and safe here, nobody knows where we are. Suppose you go and get into bed and I’ll join you in a few minutes.’
‘Yes.’ He was looking at her, eyes that lusted for her body through the film that covered them. ‘I’ll do that. Don’t be long.’
‘I won’t.’ She stood back, saw how he walked uncertainly towards the bedroom door, was unsure of his surroundings. She stood there listening, heard the rustle of clothing, the creak of bedsprings.
Euphoria, she felt quite dizzy. It was an unbelievable situation; a short time ago Morton had become a fugitive from the organization which he served; now, in his own mind, he was an adulterous lover in fear of a jealous husband. Ann laughed, was still shaking, trying to comprehend. She had clutched at an escape route and suddenly it was open to her. C-551. Professor Morton’s own twisted contribution to society, had claimed him for its latest victim.
A sobering thought, one that brought back the tight feeling in her stomach, her intestines squeezed in the grip of an icy hand. They were on the run, whichever way they looked at it; the Service would seek retribution and out there in the artificial world of a holiday camp lurked Muliman, the hunter.
It was at that very moment that a thunderous knocking shook the front door.
Chapter Twenty-six
Dolman had an uneasy feeling the moment he pushed the chapel door open, a premonition. He stood there, waited for his eyesight to become accustomed to the half-light, the reflection of the orange glow from the streetlamp outside. Places of worship troubled him and they should not have done because he was an atheist. He did not believe in any supernatural being, neither good nor evil; he kept telling himself that but he was not entirely convinced. A kind of fear of dark places, something which he had never been able to rid himself of entirely.
There was definitely somebody in here, he could tell. He listened and after a few seconds he picked up the sound of breathing, an asthmatic possibly, a faint wheezing. It was coming from the far end of the building. He peered but there was nobody in sight; rows of pews, a lectern, the altar itself. If they were anywhere then they had to be behind the altar. He was angry, they had no right in here. The chapel was locked up at nine o’clock, he only had access because Arthur Smith had given him a duplicate key. Then what were they doing in here, whoever they were?
There was only one way to find out. He moved silently on the balls of his feet, following the narrow strip of carpet down the aisle and up the altar steps. Halting, listening again. There was definitely somebody hiding behind the wooden structure with its crucifix; a drunk, probably, who had been in here several hours sleeping off his binge. It was bloody infuriating, Dolman decided he would have to get rid of the fellow, drag him outside, dump him on the tarmac, leave him there for somebody else to find. At all costs David Dolman had to have the chapel to himself, his hideaway whilst the flames he had fanned elsewhere burned up into an inferno that would destroy this capitalist stronghold which exploited the working man. The Revolution of Britain would begin right here!
A figure emerged from behind the altar structure, a lean stooped shape with a pallid sharp-featured face like some spiritual manifestation. Skeletal hands raised, thin lips moving, struggling to find words and when they came they were a whispered incantation. ‘Welcome to the House of …’
‘Fucking hell!’ Dolman recoiled, almost lost his balance.
‘You!’ The other threw up an arm as if to ward off an expected blow. ‘An unbeliever blaspheming in the House of God with vile profanities.’
‘Bugger me if it isn’t the sky pilot!’ Dolman experienced a surge of relief. Annoyance but the problem could be overcome. The last thing he wanted now was to engage in an argument over the existence or otherwise of God. ‘Christ, you gave me a scare.’
‘Kindly refrain from taking the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’ Edward Holman scrutinised this unexpected visitor carefully. The fact that the atheist had entered this chapel was a good sign; perhaps their earlier heated argument had had some effect after all and Dolman had seen the Light. It was a distinct possibility and it had to be explored, encouraged with some degree of tact. ‘I am delighted to see you, my friend, even though it has to be on a sad occasion.’
‘Eh?’ He had to get rid of this guy, persuasion rather than force. The silly old bugger was stubborn, there was no time for a confrontation except as a last resort. ‘Why’s that, mate?’
‘My wife has passed away. But who am I to question the will of the Lord?’
‘I’m … sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you, kind sir. You have arrived just in time for the funeral ceremony.’
Jesus! The little man had gone right over the top. Humour him, but not for too long, I can’t have him hanging about here.
‘I’m sorry, but … I’ve got work to do,’ Davie Dolman grunted. ‘I’m the cleaner, I’ve got to get this chapel swept out.’ His shrewd thinking had come to hit rescue on more than one occasion in the past. It sounded feasible.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ Edward Holman crooked a finger. ‘Come with me, please.’
Dolman followed as the other turned, motioned to the rear of the altar. A kind of alcove, Dolman craned his head, made out what appeared to be a heap of kindling wood, broken chairs, some crumpled newspapers. Like a bonfire ready for the match, and something lying beneath it – feet protruding, he could make out an arm, further along a still white face with closed eyes. Oh, Holy Christ, there’s a body under that!’
‘My wife,’ Holman smiled, pride replacing grief, ‘as I told you, she has had the call. Her wish was to be cremated, we disagreed many times over that but I cannot go against her wishes, can I? So, I am going to hold a brief service and then I shall cremate her!’
‘You can’t do that!’ David Dolman backed off, in all probability the silly old bleeder had murdered his wife, was attempting to cover up the crime. Nutty as a peanut bar. ‘You’ll burn the chapel down!’
‘Regrettably so,’ the other rubbed his hands together, ‘but in this instance I think it is justified. Fire is the greatest cleanser of all and this chapel is but a mockery in a place of iniquity. I have God’s blessing, I am sure of that. And, of course, I shall accompany my dear departed wife upon her journey to a higher plane. That, too, is permissible. Now, if you will excuse me, I will fetch a prayer book. I think it is best if we hold the service on the other side of the altar, don’t you? Face God rather than conduct behind his back, if you see what I mean.’
Dolman stepped back to allow the other through. This lunacy had to be stopped, the last place he could afford to lose was the chapel. One who was on his way to meet him here might be arriving at any second and, apart from that, he could not risk the intrusion of the security forces. Acting on impulse he stooped down, grasped a length of wood, a broken chair leg, held it behind his body. He waited, heard his companion’s returning shuffling footsteps.
‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to come and kneel with me before the altar.’ Holman was rustling pages, searching for the service he needed, pushing his spectacles up on to his forehead. ‘Ah, here we are. I must say, I am delighted that you have seen the wisdom and rejected atheism, my friend. I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.’
‘Dolman.’ He stood back, the small man was already on his knees, his head bowed.
‘Dolman and Holman, ha, ha. Fitting. Nevertheless, let us proceed …’
That was when David Dolman hit him, a vicious downward blow that jarred his arm right up to his elbow. The head seemed to cave in, a huge gash which was oozing blood even as Edward Holman fell forward. No cry of pain or fear, dead instantly, rolling over and lying still, face downward.
Dolman stared, realization that in a matter of a second he had become a murderer. An unnerving thought, he had instigated violence before but had never killed personally.
There had been an unfortunate death on a picket line, a policeman, but it had never troubled his conscience. Because somebody else had struck the blow. Now it was an awesome thought, his hand shook and the splintered cudgel dropped from his fingers, bounced on the floor. The silly old bugger had murdered his missus, he’d’ve done the same to me if I hadn’t hit him. Self-defence. But he might never need to plead, this camp was going to erupt into a volcano of bloodshed before long.
Dolman checked his rising panic, began to drag the limp form round behind the altar. Holman was surprisingly heavy for one of such slight build. A blood-smeared trail across the floor, the militant’s foot skidded on it, nearly threw him. With a supreme effort he hoisted up the corpse, managed to sprawl it across the pile of broken wood. A steady drip of blood began to saturate the crumpled newspapers. It only needed a match. All in good time. And even as he went through to the front of the altar he heard the chapel door click open and a furtive figure eased through the gap, closed it behind him.
John Smith might have been the young man’s real name, particularly as he claimed to be a nephew of Arthur Smith, the head groundsman. Smartly dressed in a light blue suit, a white shirt and tie carefully knotted, the newcomer gave the appearance of a clerk; banking or insurance, or perhaps an accountant or lawyer’s junior clerk, it did not matter which. Neat short hair, glasses. An habitual nod of his head as though he was accustomed to receiving orders and carrying them out willingly and efficiently. Mild-mannered, not yet mature enough for promotion. The epitome of respectability amid decadent youth and rising unemployment.
A split personality, Dolman regarded the other with awe. Twice the young man had been in court charged with GBH; bound over to keep the peace, he got off the second time on a legal technicality. A nonentity in the clerical world, he was a general where rioting was concerned, his targets the football grounds of Britain and the Continent. Smith claimed to have been one of the organizers of the Heysel stadium riot in 1985; he might well have been, there was nobody to disprove that claim. A cult figure amid the mindless who thrived on bloodshed, he planned each battle with precision; maps, timetables, billets in ‘away’ towns for his troops in order to beat police roadblocks. An armourer, he had caches of weapons in different parts of the country ranging from knuckledusters to crossbows and catapults. A messiah to the restless mobs, he organized them, appointed ‘captains’ and observed from a safe distance. Now there was an eagerness in his expression, a decisiveness about his movements. This was something special.