by Shaun Hutson
CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING
SHAUN HUTSON
Nemesis
Fiction to die for
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2016
Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2016
First published in Great Britain by W H Allen & Co plc, 1989
Published in 1991 by Sphere Books Ltd
Reprinted by Warner Books 1993
Reprinted 1996, 1998, 1999, 2001
Reprinted by Time Warner Paperbacks in 2002
Copyright © Shaun Hutson, 1989
Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental
Published in Great Britain by
Caffeine Nights Publishing
4 Eton Close
Walderslade
Chatham
Kent
ME5 9AT
www.caffeine-nights.com
www.caffeinenightsbooks.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-910720-17-2
Cover design by
Mark (Wills) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
Also by Shaun Hutson:
ASSASSIN
BODY COUNT
BREEDING GROUND
CAPTIVES
COMPULSION
DEADHEAD
DEATH DAY
DYING WORDS
EPITAPH
EREBUS
EXIT WOUNDS
HEATHEN
HELL TO PAY
HYBRID
KNIFE EDGE
LAST RITES
LUCY'S CHILD
MONOLITH
NECESSARY EVIL
PURITY
RELICS
RENEGADES
SHADOWS
SLUGS
SPAWN
STOLEN ANGELS
THE SKULL
TWISTED SOULS
UNMARKED GRAVES
VICTIMS
WARHOL'S PROPHECY
WHITE GHOST
Hammer Novelizations
TWINS OF EVIL
X THE UNKNOWN
THE REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN
NEMESIS
The woman began thrashing madly on the bed, so ravaged by pain that she actually managed to pull her left arm free of the restraining strap. As she waved it before her, the drip came free and blood spurted madly from her arm and also from the end of the tube. Nurse Kiley hurried to reattach it.
‘Come on,’ shouted Lawrenson, watching as more of the baby’s head came free. ‘Push. It’s nearly over.’
…The head was free now, the child itself twisting from side to side, as if anxious to escape its crimson prison. The woman’s labial lips spread ever wider as the child slithered into view. Lawrenson reached for it, ignoring the blood which drenched his hands.
He lifted the child, the umbilical cord hanging from its belly like a bloated snake, still attached to the placenta which, seconds later, was expelled in a reeking lump.
Fraser turned to look at the child which Lawrenson held aloft, gripping it like some kind of trophy.
‘Oh Jesus,’ murmured the doctor, his eyes bulging wide.
Nurse Kiley saw the child and could say nothing. She turned away and vomited violently.
‘Lawrenson, you can’t…’ Fraser gasped, one hand clapped to his mouth.
‘The child is all right, as I said it would be,’ Lawrenson beamed, holding it up, not allowing it to squirm out of his grip. The umbilical cord still pulsed like a thick worm. It looked as if a putrescent parasite was burrowing into the child’s stomach.
He held it towards the mother who had recovered sufficiently to look up. Her eyes were blurred with pain but as she blinked the clarity quickly returned and she saw her child.
‘Your son,’ said Lawrenson, proudly.
And she screamed again.
Nemesis
SHAUN HUTSON
AUTHOR’S NOTE
At the time it was written (in 1988) NEMESIS was one of the most painful books I'd written and I don't want that to sound in any way pretentious but I believe that one of the duties of a writer is to exorcise whatever dark thoughts are inside his head during the course of a novel. Well, I did that with a vengeance in NEMESIS. I felt at the time that it was probably one of the best books I'd written and I still believe that now. I hope you guys agree.
I'm certainly not going to go into exactly why it was painful to write (the actual physical process of getting the story onto paper was completed with my customary speed and breathlessness in about 3 months) it was some of the themes it tackled that were difficult for me. I've never been one to shy away from potentially shocking or disturbing subjects and there is little more shocking than the rape and murder of a four-year-old girl. My biggest dilemma at that time was whether or not to write a scene like that or to approach it from a different angle. I will admit that even my warped and depraved imaginings could not stretch to the description of so appalling an act so I, thankfully, decided to approach it a different way and, I felt at the time and still do, a more disturbing way. Trust me, the times in my early career when restraint was preferred to all out, no holds barred, savagery were few and far between but I am glad with the benefit of hindsight that I took that approach in NEMESIS.
The actual plot itself was of a kind that has become a sort of trademark for me as my career progressed. Something happened many years earlier that has now re-surfaced to cause havoc and place the central characters in terrible danger. That kind of thing. To be perfectly honest (a fault I have I'm afraid) I can't remember a great deal about where the central idea came from and I'm also a bit disappointed to relate that fuck all happened during the writing of the book but then again, that was usually the way for most of my books. Sitting in a room writing every day isn't very exciting for anyone reading about it. What you put on the page is fine but the process of getting it there is the same every day. Or it was in my case.
NEMESIS is very Gothic for want of a better word. Unmistakeably my style and, I fully admit, probably unconsciously influenced by Hammer Films and the ghost stories of M.R. James (again). It was quite amusing at the time because around the time of release, there were at least three other books with the same title. I can't remember the authors but I'm guessing the books were completely different to mine. I intended the meaning to relate to the Greek Goddess of revenge. Those of you who've read the book will understand that and those about to read it will discover that interpretation. I've always thought that titles are so important and NEMESIS was another time when I had a title a long time before I actually had a story. Someone once told me that the average reader picks up a book for its title, looks at the cover for 5 seconds then reads the blurb. If those are sufficiently interesting, they read the first paragraph of the book. If they're hooked, they buy. You don't get long to grab your readers which is why my books usually st
art at such a ferocious pace. Having said that, they usually continue at a ferocious pace too. If someone is paying good money for one of my books, then my first concern is that they feel that money's been well spent.
As I was writing this introduction (after having skimmed through the novel again to make sure I knew what the hell I was saying) it occurred to me that most of my books have at least one revoltingly memorable scene that has gone into a kind of pantheon of revulsion that my readers over the years have elevated to almost mythic status (you wonderful people). NEMESIS contains one of those scenes. Something so lovingly crafted and so bathed in blood that it almost defies description.
Let's put it this way, you should know it when you find it.
Shaun Hutson 2016
This book is dedicated to Claire.
Acknowledgements
There were no acknowledgements in the original version of Nemesis. I obviously felt that I'd written it without too much help. This time I would like to thank Darren Laws and Holly Andrews at Caffeine Nights. I would also like to thank my Mum. My thanks to my daughter, Kelly can never be expressed adequately. For anyone buying this book for the first time or enjoying it for the second time, I thank you too.
August 15, 1940
They were getting closer.
There was no doubt about it.
The rumbling which filled the subterranean corridor seemed to emanate from every brick, swelling around him like an approaching storm.
George Lawrenson knew that the tunnel which he now hurried along was at least seventy feet beneath the pavements of Whitehall, but still the reverberations rocked him as he walked. Flecks of dust floated from the ceiling every now and then, tiny pieces of plaster, dislodged by the incessant shaking detached themselves and fell like solid snow. Lawrenson wiped some of the dust from his jacket as he walked, looking up as the lights flickered once.
Below ground there was light. On the surface all was darkness.
The peculiar reversal of roles, the dislocation of normality which everyone had been living through for the last few weeks was illustrated perfectly by this particular example, Lawrenson thought. Where there should be blackness there was light. Where street lights should be burning there was gloom.
The only light on the surface was that which came from the fires.
From the incendiary bombs which the Luftwaffe dropped. From the blazing wreckage of houses and factories.
It had been like this every night for the past two weeks and no one knew how much longer it would go on. The skies above London were full of German planes, pouring bombs onto the capital, transforming it into a gigantic torch which flared with the flames of a thousand fires.
Lawrenson walked on, the file gripped firmly in his right hand. He turned a corner and proceeded down another long corridor. Above him the lights dimmed briefly then flared into life once more.
The bombs were falling on the embankment now.
Coming closer.
How many would emerge from the relative safety of the underground stations the following morning to discover that their houses no longer existed? That the places they had called homes had been reduced to piles of blackened brick.
Every night they poured down the steps and onto the platforms of the stations, there to spend the night sleeping or lying awake listening to the pounding from above. Then, the following morning they would emerge from below ground like a human tidal wave.
Like souls let loose from hell.
Only they were climbing the stairs into hell.
Into streets cratered by bombs, littered with human remains and obliterated vehicles.
But, for now, they were below ground like so many rabbits and all they could do was wait and hope. And pray.
Lawrenson thought briefly about his own wife as he strode along the corridor. His home was in the country, about forty miles from the capital. Unlike others, he was reasonably sure she was safe. He spoke to her by phone every evening and she had told him that she had seen the crimson glow which came from the city. She had told him she was frightened. Afraid for his safety. But, every night he told her not to worry then he retreated below ground like some kind of be-suited troglodyte, there to sit out the fury which Hitler’s air force unleashed with the coming of night.
The rumbling grew louder and the lights dimmed once again but this time Lawrenson walked on without slowing his pace. He held the file close to his chest, as if protecting it from the tiny pieces of debris that fell from the ceiling. As he turned the corner the two figures seemed to loom from the walls themselves and, despite himself, Lawrenson faltered.
He nodded a cursory greeting towards the first of the uniformed men then reached inside his jacket for his security pass. He held it up for inspection, allowing the senior of the two men to scrutinise the small photo which adorned the pass. He glanced at the picture then at Lawrenson as if to reassure himself that the man who stood before him was indeed who his pass declared him to be. Satisfied with that fact, the soldier turned towards the door, knocked once then stepped back, ushering Lawrenson through.
On the other side he was greeted by a third uniformed man. An officer.
The military man nodded affably and then returned to the table to his left where he and two other men were gathered around a map which was spread out before them.
Maps covered the wall too. The room was about twenty feet square and it seemed that every single inch of wall space was covered by maps and diagrams. Lawrenson spotted one which showed the British army’s withdrawal to Dunkirk.
The room smelt of coffee and cigarette smoke and he waved a hand before him as if to dispel the odour. The men inside the room glanced quizzically at him, those who hadn’t seen him before, others who knew him nodded greetings. No one smiled.
Lawrenson brushed a stray hair from his forehead and approached the large table which was set in the centre of the room. Two men stood behind it, looking down at yet another map. As Lawrenson approached they both looked up and the elder of the two nodded deferentially. He glanced at the file which Lawrenson held, watching as it was laid before him.
Others now gathered around the table, as if the file were acting as some kind of magnet, drawing them from all corners of the room. But only the older man sat, rubbing his eyes briefly then re-adjusting his glasses.
Outside, the earth shook as another shower of bombs fell.
Inside the subterranean Headquarters Winston Churchill began to read the contents of the file marked ‘Genesis’.
One
The car came within inches of his motorbike and Gary Sinclair swerved violently to avoid being struck by the speeding vehicle.
‘You stupid bastard!’ he bellowed at the retreating tail lights but, in seconds, the car had disappeared around a bend in the road, swallowed up by the night.
Gary sucked in a deep breath, both shocked and angered by the near miss. Hadn’t the driver seen him? Maybe the stupid sod was pissed. Either way it had been a close thing. Another couple of inches and he’d have been off. The bike juddered beneath him as if sharing his apprehension and, instinctively, he glanced down at the fuel gauge. The needle was almost touching red, the tank close to being empty. Gary muttered to himself and eased off slightly on the throttle. Perhaps, he thought, if he took it steadily, he’d get home before the bike packed up on him. When he’d taken it for a couple of test runs he’d been sure that the fuel tank was leaking but his brother, who’d sold him the bike, had assured him there was nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about, Gary thought irritably, glancing down once more at the gauge. He had another five miles to go before he reached Hinkston, he doubted if he’d make it.
As if to reinforce his doubts the bike slowed noticeably and refused to speed up even when he twisted the throttle violently. The engine spluttered dismally then died. Gary instinctively allowed his left foot to drop to the ground to steady himself as the Kawasaki came to a halt.
He grunted in annoyance and swung himself off the saddle.
Then, propping the bike up against the hedge which ran along the roadside, he pulled his helmet off and glared at the bike. He drew his fingers through his shoulder length brown hair and squatted down beside the 750. Inspections, mechanical or otherwise, seemed somewhat pointless at this stage, he thought after a moment. He was stuck five miles from home. There was nothing else to do but wheel the bloody bike back into town. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from one of the side pockets of his leather jacket and lit one, allowing the smoke to burn its way to his lungs, then he took hold of the handlebars and guided the bike away from the hedge, the helmet hanging from the throttle.
A strong breeze had blown up in the last hour or so and it caused Gary’s hair to flap around his face like so many writhing snakes. He pulled some strands from his mouth, cursing his brother once more for selling him the bike. It would take him more than an hour to walk into Hinkston from his present location and the weight of the bike made that journey all the more uncomfortable. He stopped every few hundred yards and drew in a couple of deep breaths.
The wind was keen and he was glad he wore a sweatshirt beneath his jacket. However, pushing the bike kept him warm, it was just his face that felt cold.
On both sides of him trees bowed as the wind grew in strength. The moon had retreated behind a bank of thick cloud. The road was dark, flanked by tall hedges beyond which stood the trees that rattled their branches almost mockingly at him. Low hills rose to his right, masking. the approaches to the town of Hinkston, hiding the glow of street lights and making it seem as if he were much further than five miles from the town. He glanced down at his watch and saw that it was almost 12.15 a.m. And he had to be up at six in the morning. He cursed his brother once more. He’d be lucky to reach home before 1.30 at this rate. Four hours sleep if he was lucky - Christ, he’d be wrecked by tomorrow. He thought about ringing in and saying he was ill but he decided against that. The job at the bakery was the first he’d had since leaving school two years earlier. Jobs weren’t easy to come by and he couldn’t afford to be choosy. An eighteen-year-old with two CSE’s and negligible work experience wasn’t exactly an employer’s dream.