The Truth

by Peter James

  Yes, he thought, Euan Freer. I know who you are.

  He was enjoying himself here: he liked to be a part of other people’s lives, even if it was only for short periods. He liked to share in the minutiae of their existences. He stared up at the alarm sensor, watching for the tell-tale red light to come on if it detected the slightest movement from him. But it detected no movement, and it wouldn’t.

  Since Kündz had entered four hours ago, disarming and resetting the alarm from the code he had obtained by listening to the touch-tone beeps each time Fergus Donleavy had set it, he had not moved. He could sit like this for hours, he didn’t mind. They had taught him, as a small child in the village in Africa, to stalk animals, they had taught him how to blend in, how to be totally still. That was all they had taught him, that was all he had known before Mr Sarotzini had come for him. It was good discipline to sit still like this now. It was always harder to notice an object that was not moving than one that was.

  He wondered how Susan was and hoped there had been no more pains today. This was the one bad thing, being out like this, away from his monitoring equipment, not being able to see or hear Susan, just having to try to guess what she was doing. It made him miss her even more.

  Something was happening. He heard a key, the door opened and the alarm audio warning started beeping. Then it became silent. The light in the room came on but that didn’t cause Kündz any problems. He wasn’t dazzled by it because he had already fixed the dimmer switch so it wouldn’t turn above the minimum setting.

  The light was just bright enough to enable Fergus Donleavy to see both Kündz, and the handgun Kündz was holding.

  Kündz did not often take this gun with him – Mr Sarotzini had warned him that one had to be careful with a gun in England. He wondered if Fergus Donleavy appreciated the special treatment he was getting.

  And, from Fergus Donleavy’s expression, he decided no, this man did not appreciate it. But that did not matter. Kündz was here to enjoy himself, and he had Mr Sarotzini’s permission to do this. And this, this thing he was about to do, this was going to give him a great amount of pleasure. This would make Fergus Donleavy sorry he had ever put his arm around Susan, around his woman, and tried to kiss her. Kündz concentrated hard to control himself, to maintain the correct balance between his emotions, to ensure that he did not allow the anger he was feeling to grow so strong that it would interfere with the pleasure.

  Fergus had been drinking tonight. Badly disturbed by what Susan Carter had told him, he’d stopped at the pub on the way home and sat on his own in a corner, downing several whiskies in succession, feeling in need of them, deep in thought, trying to fend off the inevitable conclusion to which he was being drawn.

  Emil Sarotzini. Miles Van Rhoe. A surrogate baby.

  It was unthinkable that Susan could be the mother. Yet someone had to be. But her? Susan? Why her?

  Someone had to be.

  He wanted, desperately, to believe he was wrong. And yet.

  Someone had to be.

  He’d rung Euan Freer four times, and each time got the answering machine. Maybe he was at home now or had returned the call and left a message. He hoped so, he hoped to hell so. He had to see him tonight.

  Now he had an intruder, and he was getting confused signals from his brain. Logic was telling him that the alarm was on, so this man could not be here, he must be a figment of his imagination. But Fergus’s memory was telling him that he’d seen this man before. He looked like a man who’d come to fix his telephones some time last year, and therefore the man was OK.

  But the gun was telling him that the man was definitely not OK, and it was setting off a fight-or-flight response in him. Fergus knew all about fight-or-flight response: he’d written an entire book on the subject. An animal under threat gets into a state of high arousal and has two options, to run or to fight. If it does neither it gets a rapid build-up of adrenaline, which can be uncomfortable and trigger an anxiety attack.

  Fergus did neither: the gun didn’t look like it was going to let him get any closer or any further away. So he stood still and, in a sudden flash of anger said, ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Kündz replied, ‘Help yourself please, to a drink, a whisky, Mr Donleavy.’

  Fergus knew his reflexes were blunted by the booze inside him. And there was something about the man’s voice, an innocence, a childlike naïveté in the request that made him feel he could be dealing with a wacko here. He decided his best course was to humour him.

  ‘Thank you, I could do with one.’

  Then as he turned towards his drinks cabinet, he saw that the tumbler and the bottle of Bushmills had already been set out for him, together with a bucket of ice, a napkin carefully folded over the top, and olives in a crystal bowl.

  This skewed him. He looked at the man again. The man was watching him and the gun was watching him. Was this some practical joke by – by whom? Some kind of surprise party? This had to be a set-up. Some television show – Jeremy Beadle? One of those stunts? He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured in a splash.

  ‘To the top,’ the man said. ‘You fill it to the top.’

  The slender comfort Fergus had been starting to feel slid away now as the tone of the intruder’s voice hardened. He filled the glass right to the top, his hands trembling, the adrenaline roaring, his blood feeling like an express train going through a tunnel.

  The whisky slopped over the top and he stopped pouring.

  ‘Drink a little,’ the man said. ‘Make room for some ice. Have an olive – they’re the ones you like, with anchovy inside.’

  Fergus obeyed him, trawling his brain, trying to make sense of this man. He can’t have been thinking straight, he can’t be the man from Telecom, he must have met him somewhere else, but where? Did they eat olives somewhere? Meet in a bar?

  Where?

  A connection was forming, one that he did not want to make, but it was growing faster every second, every picosecond, nanosecond, attosecond.

  Sweet Jesus.

  But it couldn’t be, it was too soon. This was too soon after he’d seen her. There was something else going on here, some other agenda. But what?

  He debated whether he could use the glass as a weapon, but he knew that he had already left it too late, he hadn’t fought and he hadn’t run, and now he was trapped by his adrenaline and his brain was near to seizing up.

  He could throw the glass.

  But that wasn’t going to help him. It would anger the man and the thing to do – the one thing he had to do right now – was humour this man, keep him calm, try to engage him in conversation, find out his problem. Was he a fan, pissed off about something he’d written?

  ‘Drink more, please.’

  He drank some more, and the man smiled his approval. The whisky was starting to act like a turbo boost. Half the glass was empty now, and it was getting harder to focus. What the hell? There was some kind of joke going on here that he hadn’t yet latched on to.

  ‘Drain the glass, please, all the way down.’

  Fergus fixed him with a stare. He’d had enough, he couldn’t drink any more, he was already seriously drunk. But the stare the man returned was so filled with warmth, with good humour, that Fergus, inexplicably, felt that he would hurt the man’s feelings if he disobeyed him.

  Obediently he drained the rest of the tumbler and then it slipped from his fingers, disappeared. He heard the sound of breaking glass but it seemed a long way away.

  Then the man said, ‘Take another glass from the cabinet, please.’

  ‘I’ve, hr, had sh, sh, ‘nough.’ His voice slurred, he patted his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘Smoke? You like one?’

  ‘Smoking is very bad for you,’ Kündz said.

  Fergus grinned, feeling absurdly relaxed suddenly. ‘So – so’sh drink.’

  ‘Smoking is worse, it really is, Mr Donleavy. Please believe me, I am aware of all the medical arguments. Good health is a gift we should not squander. Please have another w
hisky.’

  Fergus went unsteadily to the cabinet, removed another tumbler, then picked up the bottle and, barely able to guide it straight, slopped some whisky into the glass.

  As he took the first sip of this second glass of whisky, someone let the brake off and the whole room started moving. He tried to take a second sip, and then the floor came hurtling up to greet him.

  Some time later, Fergus didn’t know how much later it was except that it was still dark, he woke. His head was pounding, his mouth was parched, and he was aware of something happening, movement, he was being shifted, or carried, or something. Then he was motionless again.

  Then the pain came.

  His groin exploded. Steely fingers shot up inside him, they felt like they were clawing at his brain, trying to rip it out of his skull and pull it down through his gullet. Other fingers tore at his stomach, his liver, his kidneys, fingers with brass hooks were trying to scoop out the insides of his ribcage, of his hips, of his pelvis.

  The scream that erupted inside him didn’t get beyond the end of his throat; something had happened to his mouth, it felt as if it had gone, been stoved in. And this made the pain worse. His body wanted to double up but it couldn’t move, something was sitting on him, or holding him, he didn’t know, he didn’t care, he couldn’t think clearly about anything except the pain.

  It came again, and this time it was worse. His whole body shrank, then contracted, and as it contracted, the pain shot up through his stomach and down through his thighs. It burst into his arms, his head, then it pulled back, drawing in every muscle, every sinew in his body, constricting them, cinching them, then it released them, and this release felt as if a molten cannonball had been sent hurtling around inside his belly. He could feel the sweat bursting out of his skin, then the vomit rising. It stayed trapped in his gullet. He was trying to breathe now, but he couldn’t, he was choking.

  He vomited through his nostrils and pain lanced the inside of his head. Some air came in, a scrap, he coughed, his lungs clawing for more. He opened his eyes and he saw the face that his brain reminded him belonged to the man who had come to fix his telephones.

  Kündz smiled. Fergus Donleavy looked so undignified strapped down on to his bed, with a balled flannel taped into his mouth as a gag, and his trousers and underpants around his ankles. Kündz had been careful, he had wound towels beneath the ligatures, there would be no marks.

  Nor would there be marks from the two callipers that were clipped to Fergus Donleavy’s scrotum and connected by a coiled length of wire to the car battery and the transformer.

  Kündz said, ‘So you are conscious again, Mr Donleavy? There are a few things I might, perhaps, my friend, have missed. You can enlighten me. Fill in the gaps. You see, sometimes there are places you have been where the signals are not good. Shall we begin with your lunch at Scotland Yard? I don’t even know what you ate. Was it a good lunch? Was the bread good? Mr Sarotzini told me the quality of the bread is always a good indicator of the quality of a restaurant.’

  Fergus spluttered, choking again, the name, Sarotzini, resonating in his addled thoughts. Kündz knew he needed to be careful: he wanted to make it last as long as possible, to share with Fergus Donleavy this pleasure he was feeling. He wanted, so very much wanted, this intelligent man to share a little in his wisdom and, more essentially, in the greater wisdom of Mr Sarotzini. He hoped now, tonight, among other things, he would be able to teach Fergus Donleavy to understand the Thirteenth Truth, that All true gratitude is borne from punishment.

  He really wanted Fergus Donleavy to be grateful to him.

  Because if Fergus Donleavy was grateful to him, if he was truly grateful, then his purification would be so much more complete.

  Through his fading haze of alcohol and rising haze of pain, Fergus shivered. He could see the aura around Kündz. He shivered again, even more deeply, his soul riddled with terror. The colour of the aura around this man was different from any colour he had ever seen before.

  And he knew with certainty now that his worst fear was coming true.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  There was a lump, an air bubble, a crease, something in the damned wallpaper, and every time Susan tried to iron it out, it just popped up further along, and she was getting fed up with this. She couldn’t get the joins straight either, and she wished now that she’d got Harry the painter to do it, instead of trying to be smart and doing it herself.

  Except she wanted to do it herself – and not merely for something to do. This room was special, she wanted to have her own touch in here in every sense. She had worked on it until late last night, and was hoping to have got it finished before John came home tonight. She might just do it, if it wasn’t for these damned air bubbles.

  The doorbell rang. Her watch said eleven twenty. It might be Harry’s builder friend, who should have been here first thing this morning to take a look at the roof; there was a damp patch above one of the spare bedrooms, which John had said was caused by a couple of missing tiles, and now at least they could afford to have the work done to the roof that the original survey had recommended.

  She opened the front door to see a slightly built man who looked like an ageing hippie; he had straw-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail, a thin body, and a grin, a great big fat warm grin, that was spreading across his reedy little face. His eyes lit up with it, and before he had even opened his mouth, she was infected by his good humour and almost started laughing with him.

  ‘Overslept,’ he said, with an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Joe? You’re Joe, right?’

  ‘Yup, that’s me. Mrs Carter?’

  ‘Yes, I was getting concerned – I have an appointment.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I have to be in Harley Street at half two. You want to come in?’

  ‘It’s the roof, right?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Harry said you’d had a couple of estimates and you reckoned you was being ripped off.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll check the outside first – got my ladders on the van.’ He jerked his thumb at a dilapidated hulk in the street that looked more like something that had been abandoned than parked.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d murder a cup of tea.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Wow, that’s a hangover, really done my head in, know what I mean?’

  She smiled. ‘Shall I get you some paracetamol?’

  ‘I’m on them, thanks.’ He slouched off, with a cheery roll of his head, in his donkey jacket, baggy trousers and holed plimsolls, and hefted open the rear doors of his van.

  John arrived home shortly after eight o’clock. As he pulled up the BMW outside the house and reversed into a space, he did a quick calculation. It was Wednesday, 20 March. Only five weeks to go now. Five weeks and Susan would give birth to this baby, and they could hand it over and get their life back.

  He wanted their life back more than anything in the world. DigiTrak was going so well, they now had the money to start doing the renovation work the house needed and to take holidays, to go off on luxury weekend breaks, to eat out in restaurants without having to worry about the cost. They had enough money to have all the freedom they used to enjoy – even more freedom now that Susan wasn’t working full time – but they weren’t doing any of these things.

  It was as if time had frozen and they were living in limbo, and time wouldn’t start moving forward again until after the baby was born and this was all over. He felt he hardly even knew Susan. Sure she always greeted him warmly when he arrived home, made great meals – if rather too many with pancakes in them – but her life, her thoughts, her consciousness were increasingly centred obsessively around the baby, not him.

  Her pains scared him, but poor Harvey Addison had said they were nothing, and Miles Van Rhoe said the cyst was getting smaller and that most of the current pains she was experiencing were normal. John still wasn’t happy about this. He’d talked to a couple of women at work who’d
had children and, sure, they’d had some pains, but neither had had anything like this. Susan had talked to Liz Harrison and Kate Fox, and they’d had nothing like these pains either. Van Rhoe had told Susan she couldn’t make comparisons, that no two pregnancies were the same, and maybe that was true. But, all the same, he was worried.

  He was worried also about Susan’s attachment to the baby. There was nothing specific – just little things all the time. The business over the pram that her parents had bought: he’d discovered it still in the boot of her car two weeks after he’d put it there. She claimed she’d forgotten about it, but he didn’t believe that. Then, on Saturday, he had been rummaging in a dustbin, trying to find an article in a newspaper that had been thrown out, and he’d found a balled-up sheet of paper with a list of boys and girls names on it in Susan’s handwriting. Julian had been underlined. So had Oliver and Max.

  He hadn’t said anything – she seemed very emotional right now so he was trying to keep calm and avoid any confrontation. But he was concerned that something was brewing in her mind, and that maybe she was inwardly starting to reject the idea that she would have to part with the baby.

  He had decided he ought to have a private word with Miles Van Rhoe, and see what suggestions he had for helping Susan through the period after the birth. This was something neither of them had ever discussed, how she was going to feel after the baby had gone.

  Surrogacy was in the newspapers quite often these days and he had noticed mentions of counselling. Maybe if he did a search on the Internet he might find a help group who could give him advice.

  When he entered the house there was no sign of Susan. He called out, ‘Darling, hi!’ but there was no response. He put down his suitcase and briefcase, hung up his coat and called out again, ‘Hon! Hi!’