by Shaun Hutson
The figure which stood before him was holding the spade he had dropped.
In the driving rain Bob could not make out the features, he merely strode towards the figure, calling that it was private property and, besides that, to put his spade down. The figure swung the spade in a wide arc which caught Bob in the side of the face. The powerful impact splintered bone and his left cheekbone seemed to fold in upon itself. The strident crack of bone was clearly audible over his strangled cry of pain. The figure advanced and stood over him for a moment, watching as blood from his pulverised face poured down his coat. Then the figure brought the spade down a second time, this time on his legs.
Both shin bones were broken by the blow and Bob screamed in agony, feeling one of the shattered tibias tear through the flesh of his leg.
He fell back into the mud, the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness enfolding him, but seconds before he slipped away he felt his head being lifted almost tenderly. Then he saw the long, thin, double-edged knife which, seconds later, was pushed slowly into his right eye.
The figure pushed on the blade until it felt the point scrape bone, then, as easily as a man lifts a child, the figure lifted Bob Tucker’s body.
All that remained to show that a struggle had even taken place was the blood on the ground and, as the rain continued to fall, even that was soon washed away.
Thirteen
She looked at her watch and lit up a cigarette, puffing slowly on it, gazing at the phone as if it were a venomous snake sure to bite her the moment she extended her hand.
Nikki Reeves sat for five minutes until she finally picked up the receiver and jabbed out the digits. She waited, taking a last drag of her cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray. The tones sounded in her ear. She waited.
‘Come on,’ she whispered, ready to replace the receiver if necessary.
There was a click and she heard a familiar voice.
‘Hello.’
She smiled.
‘Hello, John, it’s me, can you speak?’ she said.
‘If you mean is my wife here the answer is no,’ Hacket said, irritably. ‘I told you not to call me at home again, Nikki.’
‘I had to speak to you. I have to know what’s going on. You haven’t been in to the school, I was worried.’
‘I’m touched,’ he muttered, sarcastically.
‘John, what’s wrong?’ she wanted to know. ‘I’m sorry for calling your home, I can understand you being angry about that.’
‘When I told you not to call again I meant it. Not just here but anywhere.’
Nikki sat up, her brow creasing into a frown. She gripped the receiver more tightly.
‘What are you saying? You don’t want to see me again?’
There was silence at the other end then finally Hacket spoke again, his tone softer this time.
‘You said you realised the affair couldn’t go on indefinitely. I think it’s time we stopped seeing one another.’
‘Why the sudden change of heart?’ she wanted to know.
‘Things have happened that I can’t discuss, that I don’t want to discuss. It’s over between us, Nikki. There wasn’t much there to begin with, but I’ve been thinking and it’s best ended now.’
‘A sudden attack of conscience?’ she snapped. ‘It isn’t quite as easy as that, John. We both knew what we were getting into. Why can’t you talk to me, tell me what’s bothering you?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Nikki, you’re not my wife, you’re just…’ The sentence faded as a hiss of static broke up the line.
‘Just a quick fuck,’ she snapped. ‘You don’t have the right to just drop me like that. I’m not a tart you picked up in a bar. You didn’t pay me. Unless that’s what the perfume and the jewellery were.’ She touched the onyx almost unconsciously.
‘What do you want me to do, stick a cheque in the post?’ Hacket said, angrily.
‘You bastard.’
‘Look Nikki, I made a mistake, right? End of story. My wife needs me now.’
‘And what if I need you?’ she said, challengingly.
‘It’s over,’ he told her again.
‘And what if I hadn’t rung you. What were you going to do, hope that I’d forget what had happened in the last three months? Avoid me at work? You could have had the courage to tell me to my face, John.’
‘Look, I can’t talk any longer, Sue will be back any minute. It’s finished.’
She was about to say something else when he hung up.
She gripped the receiver for a moment longer then slammed it down on the cradle, her breath coming in short gasps. Finished was it? Nikki lit up another cigarette and got to her feet, walking through to the sitting room where she poured herself a brandy, her hands shaking with anger.
Finished.
She fought back her tears of rage.
Finished.
Not yet, she thought.
September 23, 1940
George Lawrenson looked at the file marked ‘Genesis’ and nodded. The notes, the thoughts and theories contained within that manila file were the sum of his work over the last ten or fifteen years. Only in the last few months had his ideas actually seen fruition.
And then, once those ideas had become facts, those who sought to control him had ordered him to stop the work which had been a greater part of his life. They had no right to stop him.
They had no understanding.
‘Do you think they’ve changed their minds about the project?’ Margaret Lawrenson asked, watching as her husband slipped the file into his small suitcase.
‘I won’t know until I get there,’ he said.
The call from London had come late the previous evening. He had been told ·to come to the capital for ‘re-evaluation’ (he hated their jargon) of his work. ‘First they order me to stop and now they ask for more results.’ He shrugged.
Margaret smiled and crossed to him, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
‘You take care of yourself while I’m away,’ he said, softly. ‘Remember, there are two of you now.’ He smiled and patted her stomach.
‘What if they order you to stop, George?’ she asked.
‘Do you want me to stop?’ he countered.
‘I know you believe in what you’re doing. I believe in what you’re doing. Be careful, that’s all I ask.’
He locked the suitcase.
‘Where are the copies of my notes?’ he asked finally. ‘Hidden,’ she assured him. ‘If the originals are destroyed I’ve got the copies, don’t worry.’
‘They won’t destroy them, they’re not that stupid. Genesis is far too important for that and they realise it.’ He picked up his suitcase and headed for the stairs. She descended with him, walking to the front door and out onto the drive. He slid the case onto the passenger seat of the car then walked around to the driver’s side.
‘Call me when you get to London,’ she said, watching as he clambered behind the wheel and started the engine. Then she retreated to the front door and watched as he pulled away.
Lawrenson guided the car slowly down the driveway, turning to wave as he reached the end.
It was then that the car exploded.
The entire vehicle disappeared beneath a searing ball of yellow and white flame, pieces of the riven chassis flying in all directions. The concussion wave was so powerful that Margaret Lawrenson, standing more than fifty yards away, was thrown to the ground, her ears filled by the deafening roar as the car blew up.
A thick, noxious mushroom of smoke rose from the wreckage, billowing up towards the sky like a man-made storm cloud. Flames engulfed what little remained of the car, burning petrol spreading in a blazing pool around the debris. Cinders floated through the air like filthy snow and, as Margaret finally pulled herself upright and ran towards the flaming shell of the car she could smell burning rubber and a sickly, sweeter stench.
The odour of burning flesh.
The heat of the flames kept her back, away from the twisted remains of the car which
were now glowing white from the incredible heat. But inside she could see what was left of her husband, burned so badly he resembled a spent match, still clutching what was left of the steering wheel with hands that had turned to charcoal.
She dropped to her knees in the driveway, sobbing. Other eyes had seen the blast.
More professional eyes.
The two figures who sat in the jeep across the road, hidden by trees, watched appreciatively as the car first exploded then blazed.
The first of them smiled, the second reached for the field telephone.
‘Give me the Prime Minister’s personal aide,’ he said, in clipped tones. There was a moment’s silence then he continued. ‘Tell Mr Churchill that, as of 10.46 a.m. today, Project Genesis ceased.’
Major David Catlin replaced the phone and gazed once more at the flames.
Fourteen
Hacket felt as if he’d been hit with an iron bar. His senses were dulled, his head aching. He moved as if in a trance, stopping to hold on to furniture every now and then as if afraid he was going to fall.
On the sofa, Sue sat quietly, her face pale, her eyes red and puffy from so many tears. She looked exhausted, as if the effort of so much sobbing had sucked every last ounce of strength from her.
She still wore the black skirt and jacket which she’d worn to Lisa’s funeral.
Hacket had tried to coax her into changing after the last of the mourners had gone but she had merely shaken her head and remained on the sofa, her eyes vacant. He had wondered a couple of times if she had slipped into shock but, each time he’d touched her she’d managed a smile, even kissed his hand as he’d brushed her cheek.
Now he stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, hands dug in the pockets of his trousers.
The day had passed so slowly. It seemed that each minute had somehow stretched into hours, each hour into an eternity. The pain of their loss had become almost physical. Hacket rubbed a hand across his forehead and watched the steam rise from the kettle, just as he had watched it first thing that morning when he’d risen, dreading what was to come.
The arrival of the flowers.
Then the guests. (They had limited those present to his own parents and Sue’s sister and her husband.)
And finally the hearse.
Hacket swallowed hard, fighting back tears at the recollection.
The huge vehicle had completely dwarfed the tiny coffin. Hacket had thought how easily he could have carried the box himself, under one arm.
He made the coffee, reaching into the cupboard for an aspirin in an effort to relieve the pain which still gnawed at the base of his skull. He took a sip of coffee, scarcely noticing when the hot liquid burnt his tongue.
And at the cemetery they had watched as the box was lowered into the grave, again so pitifully small. He had feared that Sue would collapse. She had spent the entire service crushed against him, weeping uncontrollably, but he had tried to fight the tears, to be strong for both of them. It had been a fight he had no hope of winning. As the small box had come to rest on the floor of the grave he had surrendered to the pain inside him and broken down. And they had supported each other, oblivious to those around them, to the empty words the vicar spoke. Words like ‘resurrection’.
Hacket now shook his head slowly and sighed.
The service had seemed to take an age and finally, when it was over, both he and Sue had been led like lost children back to the waiting car and driven back to the house. The mourners, feeling as though they were intruding, had stayed for less than an hour then left the Hackets alone with their grief.
Sue had slept for a couple of hours that afternoon but Hacket could find no such peace. He had paced the sitting room, smoking and drinking, wanting to get drunk, to drink himself into oblivion but knowing that he had to be there when Sue woke up. She needed him more now than ever before.
Even more than Nikki needed him.
He pushed the thought to one side angrily, picked up the mugs of coffee and headed back towards the sitting room.
Sue had her eyes closed and Hacket hesitated, thinking she was asleep but, as he sat down opposite her she opened her eyes and looked at him.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he said, softly, smiling.
‘I wasn’t asleep. Just thinking.’
‘About what?’ he asked, handing her the coffee.
‘About that stupid phrase people always use when someone’s died. "Life must go on." Why must it?’ Her face darkened.
‘Sue, come on, don’t talk like that. We have to go on, for Lisa’s sake.’
‘Why, John? She’s dead. Our child is gone. We’ll never see her again, never be able to hold her, kiss her.’ Her eyes were moist but no tears came. Hacket wondered if tear ducts could drain dry as he watched Sue wipe her eyes. She shook her head, wearily.
So much pain.
‘I should go and see my father tomorrow,’ she said, quietly.
‘No. Not yet. You’re not ready.’
‘And what if he dies too? What if he dies when I should have been with him?’
Hacket got up, crossed the room then sat down beside her, pulling her closer.
‘Your sister could have stayed for a few days, she could have visited him.’
‘She had to get back to Hinkston, her husband has to work and they have a child, John. It wouldn’t be fair to leave him alone.’
‘You do too much, Sue. If ever anything’s needed to be done, you’re the one who’s done it. Never Julie. You take too much responsibility on yourself.’
‘That’s the way I am.’
‘Well maybe it’s time you started putting yourself first in order of priorities instead of coming second to everyone else’s needs.’ He gently held her chin, turned her head and kissed her on the lips. She gripped his hand and squeezed.
‘I love you,’ she whispered.
‘Then prove it. Come to bed, get a good night’s sleep.’
‘In a while,’ she said. ‘You go up, I won’t be long.’ She glanced down at the coffee table and noticed a letter addressed to her lying beside a card offering ‘Sincerest Sympathies’.
‘What’s this?’ she asked him, reaching for the letter.
‘It came this morning. I figured you’d read it when you felt like it.’
‘I don’t recognise the writing,’ she said, turning the envelope over in her hands.
‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’
‘Just give me a minute, John. Please,’ she asked softly and kissed him.
Hacket rose and headed for the hall.
‘One minute,’ he reminded her then she heard his footfalls on the stairs as he climbed.
Sue put down her coffee, let loose a weary breath then opened the letter. It was just one piece of paper, no address at the top and, as she glanced at the bottom, she noticed it wasn’t signed either. She checked the envelope again, ensuring that it hadn’t been delivered to the wrong house. Her name was there, the address was correct.
‘Dear Mrs Hacket,’ she read aloud, her eyes skimming over the neat lettering. ‘I know what you will think of me for writing to you but I had a feeling you would want to know what has been going on between myself and your husband, John…’ The words faded into silence as she read the remainder of the note, her mouth open slightly.
She read it again, more slowly this time. Then, she folded it, gripped it in her hand and got to her feet.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up towards the landing, then at the crumpled letter.
Sue began to ascend.
Fifteen
‘I should have stayed with her for a couple of days,’ said Julie Clayton, gazing out of the side window of the Sierra. ‘I should have gone to see Dad too.’
‘They’re best left on their own, there’s nothing you could do,’ Mike Clayton said, glancing agitatedly at the car ahead of him. He indicated to overtake, saw that the car ahead was speeding up and dropped back again. ‘Come on you bastard,’ he hissed.
‘Either put your foot down or get out the bloody way.’
He looked down at the dashboard clock.
10.42 p.m.
‘We’re not going to make it back in time at this rate,’ he said, irritably. ‘I said you should have come alone.’
‘Sue is my sister, Mike,’ Julie snapped. ‘She needed me there.’
‘Well your own son needs you now,’ he reminded her, attempting to overtake the car in front once again. He stepped on the accelerator hard, easing the Sierra out into the centre of the road, ignoring the lights which he saw coming towards him.
‘Mike, for God’s sake,’ Julie gasped, seeing the oncoming vehicle but her husband seemed oblivious to the approaching car. He pressed down harder, the needle on the speedometer touching eighty as he sped past the van ahead of him.
The car coming the other way swerved to miss the Sierra, the driver slamming on his brakes, simultaneously hitting the hooter. The car skidded almost crashing but the driver wrestled it back onto the road and drove on.
Mike Clayton, now clear of the van which had been blocking him put his foot down.
They passed a sign which read ‘HINKSTON 25 MILES’.
Clayton shook his head, trying to coax more speed from the car.
Julie also glanced at the clock and saw that it was fast approaching 10.47. She guessed it would take another twenty minutes before they reached home, provided there were no more delays.
She swallowed hard and looked across at her husband who was gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.
She too was beginning to wonder if they would reach Hinkston in time.
She prayed that they did.
Sixteen
‘Who is she, John?’
Sue stood in the bedroom doorway, the letter held before her like an accusation.
Hacket looked across from the bed and frowned, not quite sure what was happening. Sue crossed to the bed, standing beside it, looking down at him, a combination of anger and hurt in her eyes.