by Shaun Hutson
‘What exactly did he tell you about the treatment?’
She shrugged.
‘He didn’t give any details, I suppose that’s why he’s coming to see us here, to explain it to both of us.’
Hacket was unimpressed.
Sue heard a car pull up and got to her feet again, crossing to the window. This time she saw Curtis walking up the front path. She felt that familiar shiver run through her as she watched him. He was dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a dark jacket.
She hurried to open the door, releasing the latch before he’d even knocked. Hacket heard them exchange greetings, then Curtis entered the living room.
Sue made the introductions and Hacket shook the doctor’s hand, impressed by the firmness of the other man’s grip.
Curtis declined Hacket’s offer of a drink, settling instead for a cup of tea. The three of them finally sat down, Curtis aware that the eyes of the other two were on him.
‘Well, I won’t waste your time,’ he said, smiling. ‘Mr Hacket, I don’t know if your wife has mentioned anything about our conversation the other day.’
‘She said that you told her she might be able to have children again,’ Hacket explained.
Curtis nodded and sipped his tea.
‘That’s right. She told me about your daughter. I’m very sorry.’
‘Thanks,’ snapped Hacket. ‘Can you get to the point? Please satisfy my curiosity.’
Sue glared at her husband for a second, annoyed by his abruptness. Then she returned to looking at the doctor, enraptured both by his words and his appearance.
Christ, it was like some schoolgirl crush, she thought, barely suppressing a smile.
‘My wife, as I’m sure you’re aware, was told that she couldn’t have any more children. Several doctors told her that,’ Hacket continued.
‘But you want another child?’ Curtis said.
Hacket opened his mouth to speak but the doctor continued.
‘Both of you?’
‘Yes,’ Hacket said, quietly, meeting the doctor’s gaze.
‘I’ve treated a number of women successfully over the past seventeen or eighteen years, Mr Hacket. They too had been told they couldn’t have children, also by other experts.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in the last word.
‘Whatever it takes, we want another child,’ Sue interjected.
Curtis smiled benignly at her, as a parent might smile at a child.
Hacket held up a hand, his eyes still on Curtis.
‘Just a minute. Excuse my scepticism, doctor. It’s not that I doubt your methods or your expertise but I’m concerned for my wife. If the treatment doesn’t work then it could do her untold damage psychologically.’
‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ snapped Sue. ‘I know the risks. I’m prepared to take them.’
‘Please,’ Curtis said. ‘I didn’t come here to start any arguments. I can see both points of view. If you’ll just listen to what I’ve got to say.’
‘I apologise for my husband, Doctor,’ Sue said and, this time, it was Hacket’s turn to feel the anger.
‘You want to know about the treatment,’ Curtis said.
Hacket nodded.
‘I can’t see how you can achieve anything without the use of surgery,’ the teacher said.
‘That is the advantage, Mr Hacket. The treatment can be completed at my own surgery. There is no need to involve a hospital or any other outsiders.
‘Why are you so anxious to exclude outside help? What’s so special about this treatment?’
Curtis wasn’t slow to pick up the note of challenge in Hacket’s voice.
‘Because it’s my treatment, Mr Hacket. This is my project. I’ve done most of the work on it, I don’t intend to let others start sticking their noses in where they’re not wanted.’
‘Your treatment. You’ve worked on this alone then?’
‘Yes, for as long as I can remember. Ever since I qualified. It’s been mine. My theories, my work. I’ve seen the results. I know it’s successful. You can see the results for yourself, here in Hinkston. Some of them at your school.’
Hacket frowned.
‘What do you mean?’ he wanted to know.
‘I said I’d treated a number of other women over the years. Some of the children they gave birth to are at the school where you teach.’
Hacket sat forward in his seat, his hands clasped together.
‘Like who?’
‘Phillip Craven. Emma Stokes.’
‘Jesus,’ murmured Hacket under his breath.
Craven. And he knew that other name too. Emma. What the hell had been her surname? The girl who had been pulling the entrails from the mouse. The one who had slashed open Jo Milton’s hand with a scalpel.
‘How old is the girl?’ he asked.
‘About twelve. A pretty girl. Long black hair,’ said Curtis smiling.
Hacket nodded. It was her.
‘Who else have you treated?’ he wanted to know.
‘A young couple, recently. Stuart and Michelle Lewis, they have a baby now. The Kirkhams, the couple who own The Bull in town, the hotel. They have a daughter, Paula, thanks to my work. And, as well as the Cravens’ and the Stokes’ families, there are a number of other children at your school whose mothers I treated. And of course there was Ray Weller.’
Hacket felt the colour draining from his cheeks.
‘The man who lived here before us? The one who killed his wife and child then shot himself?’
Curtis nodded.
‘A tragedy,’ he said, wistfully, a faint smile on his lips. ‘She really was such a beautiful child.’
Hacket felt the hairs at the back of his neck slowly rise.
Sixty-four
‘Why did he do it?’ Hacket wanted to know. ‘Why did Weller kill his family then himself?’
‘I’m not a psychiatrist, Mr Hacket,’ Curtis said, finishing his tea and setting the cup down. ‘I thought you wanted to know about the possibility of your wife having another child, not about the misfortunes of this building’s previous occupant.
Hacket looked coldly at the doctor for a moment then nodded.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, wearily. ‘We both do.’
‘When could the treatment start?’ Sue wanted to know.
‘As soon as you agree to it.’
‘You still haven’t explained exactly what this treatment is,’ Hacket reminded him.
‘Well, without going into too much technical and biological detail, it involves an injection into the wall of the uterus,’ said Curtis. ‘It’s as simple as that. There isn’t necessarily any need for a local anaesthetic. The whole process is over in less than fifteen minutes.’
‘But Sue’s fallopian tubes were blocked, how can the egg travel from the ovaries?’
‘It doesn’t have to.’
Hacket frowned, his look of incredulity turning to one of near mocking.
Curtis continued.
‘A hormone is injected into the wall of the uterus, it stimulates growth. The foetus gestates in the womb as normal but the fallopian tubes become unnecessary.’
‘So it’s a kind of artificial insemination?’ Hacket said, quietly.
‘No. In the case of insemination, sperm is introduced directly into the ovaries. The egg grows there then travels along the fallopian tube to the womb where it grows naturally. As I said earlier, this process eliminates the need for that part of the cycle.’
Hacket shook his head.
‘So how is the egg fertilised?’
‘By your sperm, within the vagina, as in normal intercourse. The egg is already removed, again by drawing it off using a needle, then replaced in the uterus where it is then fertilised. Gestation is accelerated by the second injection which initiates growth.’
‘What do you mean "accelerated"?’ Hacket said, warily.
‘The gestation period is shortened. The time varies according to the individual subject and how well they respond to the drug.’
‘It’s not possible,’ Hacket murmured.
‘On the contrary, Mr Hacket, it’s not only possible but it works. You can see the examples for yourself. The Craven boy, Emma Stokes and the others I’ve mentioned to you.’
Silence descended as Hacket struggled to come to terms with what he’d heard and Curtis sat back almost smugly, glancing first at the teacher then at Sue who returned his smile warmly.
Hacket stroked his chin.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he muttered. ‘If this process works then why haven’t you done more with it? Brought it to the attention of the medical authorities? It could benefit women all over the country if it works.’
‘You still continue to say ‘if’, Mr Hacket,’ the doctor observed. ‘What will it take to convince you? Won’t you believe it until you’re holding your own child in your arms?’
Hacket swallowed hard.
‘I suppose I’m frightened to believe it,’ he said, quietly. ‘It sounds too easy. Too simple. What are the risks to the child?’
‘No more than in normal pregnancy.’
‘I said I’m willing to take those risks, John,’ Sue said, defiantly.
‘Well I’m not sure I am,’ Hacket said, flatly.
Curtis glared at the teacher for a moment.
‘You still haven’t told me enough.’
‘It isn’t only your decision,’ Sue said, angrily. ‘It’s me who’s got to carry the baby. I’m the one who’s got to give birth. I told you, I need that child.’
Curtis got to his feet.
‘I think it would be best if I left now,’ he said, making for the door.
Sue hurried after him. Hacket sauntered to the door where he shook hands with Curtis once more.
A chill breeze blew in through the open front door and Hacket felt his skin rise into goose-pimples.
‘Take your time and think about what I’ve said,’ Curtis told them, but his eyes were on Hacket when he spoke. ‘It’s a chance to start again, Mr Hacket. Not many people get that.’
He said goodnight to Sue then turned and headed down the path to his waiting car.
Hacket stepped back inside the house, Sue stood on the step watching as the car disappeared into the night.
When she entered the sitting room, Hacket was sitting in front of the electric fire warming his hands.
‘You were rude to him, John,’ she said, irritably. ‘Like he said, he’s offering us another chance. We have to take it.’
Hacket inhaled, held the breath for a moment then let it out in a long sigh.
‘Sue, it might be coincidence, maybe I’m overreacting but the kids he’s treated…’ He struggled to find the words. ‘There’s something strange about them.’
‘And what about Julie’s son, Craig? Is he strange too?’ she snapped, choosing to ignore the night Curtis had been called to the boy. ‘It’s not you that’s overreacting, John, it’s your imagination. Perhaps you’ve been a teacher too long, reading books too long. The name of this town is Hinkston not Midwich. These children aren’t the children of the damned, they’re not artificially created by some mad doctor.’ She was angry, the anger mixed with scorn. ‘They’re the last hope for their parents. Just like Curtis is our last hope. She got to her feet and made for the door. ‘I’m going to bed, John. If you want to sit up and think then fine, but just think about one thing. I’m having this child whether you want me to or not. And I won’t let you stop me.’
Sixty-five
Curtis drove slowly through the streets of Hinkston, only speeding up slightly when he reached the road that led towards his house.
The massive building was almost invisible in the gloom but for a couple of lights burning in one of the rooms on the first floor. However, as he drew nearer the outline of the house became visible against the black velvet backdrop of night.
The doctor swung his car into the driveway, brought it to a halt before the front door and switched off the engine. He sat for a moment, head bowed, then he swung himself out of the car, locked it and headed for the house.
His footsteps echoed on the polished wood of the hall floor as he entered and, as he made his way towards the sitting room he slowed his pace, glancing towards the stairs.
Listening for any sign of movement from above.
There was none.
The house was silent.
Curtis entered the sitting room, feeling the warmth from the dying embers of the open fire. They still glowed red in the grate and he moved across towards them, warming his hands close to the coals. In the red light which they cast it looked as though his face had been splashed with blood.
‘What did she say?’
The voice came from behind him, from the high-backed leather chair which stood close to the fire. Curtis hadn’t seen the figure sitting in it when he’d entered the room and the words startled him momentarily. He exhaled deeply, looking at his companion for a moment before once again turning his back and warming his hands.
‘The woman is enthusiastic,’ he said. ‘She has been from the beginning. It’s her husband who’s resisting.’
Curtis got to his feet, crossed to the ornate drinks cabinet and poured himself a whiskey. He raised a glass, inviting the other occupant of the room to join him.
The figure nodded and Curtis handed him a drink.
‘How much does he know?’ the figure asked.
‘He knows about Weller,’ Curtis announced, then he swallowed a large measure of the whiskey.
‘You expected him to, didn’t you? A murder and a suicide in a small town like this are bound to be common knowledge.’
Curtis raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘Murders but not disappearances?’ he mused.
‘Hacket knows that Weller killed his family,’ the figure said. ‘What he mustn’t find out is why.’
Sixty-six
He stood beside the bed for what seemed like an eternity, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept.
Finally, Hacket undressed and slipped into bed beside Sue. He lay back, one arm across his forehead, gazing at the ceiling, listening to Sue’s shallow breathing.
Could what Curtis said really be true?
Was it even feasible?
Hacket exhaled deeply and rubbed his face.
He knew that the child was important to Sue. No, important was the wrong word. It had become an obsession. He wondered if he could stop her from undergoing Curtis’ treatment now even if he wanted to.
But did he want to?
He knew the child meant everything to her and he also knew that it did offer their only chance of returning to anything like a normal existence. To be given the chance to start again. It was a chance which he dare not forego either.
But the risks.
Small compared to the joy which would come with the birth of the child.
What exactly was the treatment?
Curtis had described it. A form of artificial insemination. Only this was less clinical, less mechanical.
The foetus grows at an accelerated rate. Why?
Hacket sat up in bed and looked down at Sue. He reached across and gently pulled a strand of hair away from her mouth.
The thought of the child meant everything to her. He had no right to deprive her of that joy.
The children born because of Curtis’ treatment were violent.
Only the ones you know about, he told himself. Just two out of possibly dozens. It could be coincidence.
It had to be coincidence.
‘Oh God,’ he murmured, irritably. The questions and queries could torment him forever if he thought about them. The only thing that mattered was that they had a glimmer of hope.
The chance of another child.
The risks…
‘To hell with it,’ he whispered to himself and swung out of bed.
It was then that the phone rang.
Hacket glanced down at the clock.
11.56 p.m.
He looked at Sue
but the persistent drone of the phone didn’t seem to have disturbed her.
It kept ringing.
Hacket got to his feet and padded down the stairs, shivering slightly from the cold as he reached for the receiver.
‘Hello,’ he said, quietly.
Nothing.
‘Hello,’ he repeated, wearily.
Silence.
Hacket put down the phone and shook his head.
Wrong number no doubt he thought as he turned and ascended the stairs once more.
He was half way up when the phone rang again.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he muttered and retraced his steps, snatching up the receiver once again.
‘Yes,’ he hissed.
No answer.
‘Look, if this is a joke.’
His angry protestations were cut short.
‘John Hacket?’ said the voice at the other end of the line.
It was the teacher’s turn to stand there in silence.
He didn’t recognise the voice, hardly surprising, really, from the utterance of just two words.
‘Is that John Hacket?’ the voice repeated.
‘Yes, who is this?’
Click.
The line went dead.
Hacket held the receiver away from his ear as if it were some kind of venomous reptile then, slowly, he replaced it. He stood looking at the phone for a moment, as if expecting it to ring again. When it didn’t he made his way slowly back up to bed.
Sixty-seven
The smell reminded Sue of a hospital. The strong odour of disinfectant. A scent that was both reassuring and repulsive.
Sue thought of her father, lying alone in that hospital room, waiting to die. It was this smell which must have filled his nostrils for so long.
The memory came unexpectedly, all the more painful for that and she tried to push it from her mind. She sat in the waiting room of Curtis’ surgery, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands, glancing alternately up at the wall-clock above the receptionist’s desk and at the door which led through to the surgery.
She seemed to have been waiting hours, although she knew that barely five minutes had slipped by since she’d arrived and the receptionist had retreated into the surgery proper to tell Curtis of her arrival. Sue wasn’t sure what was making her more nervous, the thought of the treatment or the nagging doubt that it would fail.