The blow that felled him came from the side, and too swiftly for him to have seen the figure detach itself from the nearby pillar and lunge. The torch glass shattered as it struck the floor. The thud of his body dropping to the stone followed an instant later.
Marcus stood over his quarry, shaking. The night watchman did not move. He leaned closer and was sure he could see a dark stain spreading across the floor from the back of the man’s head. Marcus dropped the truncheon, stolen from a nearby exhibit on 20th century policing, and shuddered with revulsion. He was about to walk back to the picnic basket and his partner in crime when he spotted the brace of keys on the watchman’s belt. Realising he had given little thought to how he would make his exit, he crouched down and attempted to relieve the watchman of them. After a minute or two of anxious fumbling he realised he could not detach them from the man’s belt and the smell of blood was starting to turn his stomach.
“Thou shalt not kill,” he remembered. Marcus ignored the voice in his head and rolled the body onto its side to release the belt. Concerned that he should not waste any more time, Marcus lifted the belt free and clipped it around his own waist and returned to his prized treasure.
Marcus was sweating profusely with the effort of dragging the picnic basket and the mannequin through the exit turn-styles to the heavy wooden doors. The keys slipped between his fingers as he paused, panting, and tried to locate the one that would open the main lock. If they had not been secured to the belt he would have dropped them countless times in haste and frustration. “Thou shalt not kill,” the voice repeated. Marcus tried to shut it out. Eventually he found the right key and slipped it into the lock. It twisted and clicked reassuringly. He gave the door an ambitious tug but it refused to budge. Then he spotted the twin bolts, top and bottom. Releasing them, he tugged again and instantly felt the force of the storm. Collecting the basket and figure, he fought the wind and stinging rain to struggle down the steps, his chest wheezing with the exertion. He had managed just a few paces when the straw boated was ripped viciously from his head. He watched it skip and bounce back inside the museum but quickly resigned himself to its loss and continued labouring toward the waiting van.
The traffic was light and there were few people around. Most had the sense to seek shelter and delay their homeward exodus until the worst of it passed. He crossed the road, getting drenched in muddy, oily water as a passing bread lorry ploughed through one of the larger potholes. Nobody paid him the slightest attention as he opened the rear doors of the maintenance van and wrestled both the basket and the mannequin into the back. Relieved and satisfied, he slammed the doors closed again and leaned his soaking head against the cold metal. A vision of the night watchman, bloodied and dead, flashed through his mind. “Thou shalt not kill,” intoned the stern voice.
“Leave me alone!” he insisted aloud. “God is dead!”
“Excuse me…” Marcus spun to meet the voice, an altogether different one to that in his head. “Off to a fancy dress party?” The police officer’s tone held a note of sarcasm. “Only I wasn’t aware the museum did fancy dress hire.” Her eyes studied him as she edged closer. Marcus glanced back to the museum, his mind spinning. He had come so far. His task was nearly done. To be stopped now…
“Leave me alone,” he repeated, as if to nobody in particular.
“Please open the door and step away from the van,” urged the policewoman, her black raincoat glistening in the rain. Marcus simply stared at her, the cold stinging his face, whipping his body, the flannel trousers and blazer sagging with the weight of the rain. He was tired. He wanted to be away from here, alone with his treasures. Marcus smiled.
“I’m going to fly through time,” he announced.
A shrill ringing sound from across the street snatched her attention. Marcus followed her anxious gaze to the steps of the museum. It was an alarm. A figure appeared, staggering through the blackness of the open door. It swayed for a moment before toppling down the steps with a scream. Marcus knew at once it was the night watchman. He was still alive…Marcus had not killed him.
“Thank God!” he grinned.
“What?” The policewoman started, changing her poise and reaching for her stun gun, alarm obvious in her expression.
“Thou shalt not kill. I didn’t kill him,” explained Marcus. “I thought I had.”
“You’re under arrest!” she barked.
“No. No, I have to go now.” Marcus turned and began walking toward the driver’s door.
“Stop!” she ordered. Marcus ignored her, too weary to argue. He pictured the riverbank, the boat, the grass blowing in a gentle breeze and the warming sun. The policewoman lunged and tried to press the stun gun to the side of his neck…but a sudden gust knocked her off balance and the blow sizzled harmlessly in the rain beside his ear. Marcus saw the blue sparks and felt her full bodyweight crash hard into his back.
Marcus lay on the sodden tarmac, winded, the policewoman on top of him. He gazed up into her pale skin and dark eyes, feeling the intimacy and warmth of her body pressing down on him. She was not looking at him. She was reaching for something on the road nearby. He was dimly aware of her voice, shouting warnings and threats, and the noise and splashes of the traffic passing just feet away. But he could also see the sunlight through the trees, hear the whisper of the breeze and the lapping of the water. He felt her hot breath caress his face. Her mouth was open, inviting. His desire was stirring.
“Misty.” He reached up and kissed her, pressing his tongue against her lips. His arms closed around her and he pulled her down until he felt her breasts resting on his chest. His loins stirred against the dampness of his flannels, against the weight of her smooth body. Suddenly she was fighting, squirming free from his embrace, the stun gun on the road forgotten. He clung tighter, sensing her panic, trying to stall her struggle. “Misty, no! You’ll fall in! You’ll tip us over!”
“Let go of me!” she screamed in the rain, and rolled. Marcus felt the boat tipping. The sunlight faded and the breeze began to whip him cruelly.
“No! The basket!” His head spun round. He felt her body lift from him, as though it had been stolen away. He tried to find the basket but all he could see was tarmac. “You’ve knocked it overboard! We need it!” He crawled on his hands and knees, searching, gasping for air between the rain. “Help me!” he implored.
Marcus watched her stagger to her feet. He saw her, silhouetted against the brightly lit museum fascia. He saw the angry sky, the neon streetlamps, the potholed road. She was a police officer. It was all over. It was the end of his life. It didn’t matter…his life wasn’t worth living anyway. Marcus kneeled, smiling through the downpour. She was bending, reaching for something on the road. In the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white. It happened too fast to warn her.
Marcus Smith watched the blood seeping from her wounds and, mixed with oil, dirt and rain, flow into the gutter and away through the drains. Her dark eyes were empty and her mouth gaped hollow, as if emptied of a last scream. There was something not quite right about the shape of her head, or about the way her body lay twisted and buckled on the road. Marcus turned to watch the lorry’s rear lights fade from view. Clearly the driver had no intention of stopping. He glanced across the road to see the night watchman slumped on the bottom step in front of the museum, cradling his head. In the distance he heard a siren wailing and thought he glimpsed the approach of flashing blue lights. Marcus did not wait to find out if he was right. He opened the door and pulled his aching body into the driver’s seat. Moments later he was driving away into the stormy night.
The storm cleared with the dawn. A blanket of mist clung to the grey jagged branches of the leafless trees. With the clearing of the rain, the temperature fell to leave a layer of cruel frost over the stony shore of the frozen reservoir. It was a panorama of ice…the haggard trees, dying weeds and tired earth. Marcus sat and shivered beneath the chequered rug, staring at the ice across the windscreen and glancing at the needle on the bat
tery meter. It read ‘no charge’. He was numb from head to toe and felt barely alive. He could not tell how long he had sat there, waiting for the sunrise. It might have been minutes or it could have been forever. The perspective by which he judged such issues as the passing of time was gone. The trauma of the night seemed distant and dreamlike and, although he could not remember all of it, he was troubled by snatches of images and voices he could not deny.
Marcus was distracted by the glint of amber on the crystallised ice across the windscreen. At last, he thought. The waiting was over. With a determined effort that wracked his body, he pushed open the door and stumbled out, slipping on the frozen earth. He could see it now. The bright light caught the rim of the reservoir, piercing the mist. Marcus watched it burn brighter, rising slowly above the jagged treeline until the circumference of its burning orb was more clearly defined against the weak blue of the sky. Although he felt no warmth from its glow, the bleakness of his dismal surroundings seemed to lift slightly. Marcus struggled to his feet and moved a few steps closer to the frozen water. The scene was now aglow with mist, frost and ice, the sunlight creating hues, tones and textures that drifted peacefully across the lake to prove that winter could indeed be beautiful.
He turned back to the van and, fighting to stay on his feet, collected the picnic basket and mannequin from the rear before setting out cautiously across the ice. It held his weight with ease, particularly at the shallower edges. He fell a handful of times, each time sending cracks shooting across the surface. Still the ice held. Reaching the centre, he tugged the rug free from his shoulders and placed it over the ice. Shivering with cold beneath the icy stiffness of the blazer, he placed the basket in the centre of the rug and began unpacking it, meticulously arranging the plastic food, cutlery, bottles and napkins in their rightful places. Finally he removed the wind-up record player and set it down near the edge of the rug, turning its handle until it would turn no more. Smiling, he surveyed the scene with pride and pleasure.
Marcus felt his eyes cloud with tears as he lifted Misty to her feet and embraced her tightly, gazing into her deep blue eyes. With one hand he brushed aside her auburn hair and pressed his cold, chapped lips against hers. With the other he pressed against the small of her back and felt her warmth flow though his stiff limbs.
“I will never leave you,” he promised. “We will never be parted. I don’t belong here my darling. I’m coming back with you.” Marcus choked back a sob. “Music? Of course…music.” He reached down and carefully lowered the needle onto the old 78 on the turntable. Releasing the catch, the black disc began to spin with a hiss and a crackle. Pulling her closer again, Marcus whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry it didn’t work out better than this…but at least we’re here, together.” He shuffled his feet, one way and then the other, in time to the music. He felt the swirl of her dress. “Time to go home now.”
They danced. The picnic, untouched, on the frozen water.
*
That was how they found it, shortly after a police helicopter spotted the van on the banks of the Llwyn Onn reservoir on the edge of the Brecon Beacons.
The basket, the food untouched and the clothes neatly folded on the rug at the centre of the lake.
The old record player still turned, its needle wearing into the grooves of the disc. There was no sign of Marcus Smith, or the missing mannequin.
All they found was a hole in the ice, a short distance away, and no sign of a body in the dark waters beneath. As they gazed into the murky blackness, the record played on. “Tap tap on my window, could it be that you are still in love with me. Here we go again…” sang the crisp, crackly tenor.
*
Part 2
On The Way To Abamae
IV
HE found it on the roadside amid the sea of broken glass – a glimpse of bronze on a background of shards that reflected the flashing blue chaos of the scene. In the noise and confusion he picked it up and shoved it into the depths of his pocket. He could not explain this action…not now…nor later that night when he considered the matter at length, far away from this carnage. Steven Elan put it down to journalistic instinct.
The roadside was a mess. Glass and blood mingled on the cold, unforgiving tarmac. Men in uniform, their faces sombre, lifted the last of the bodies and carried it away from the wreckage of twisted steel and melted plastic. Their luminous arm and wastebands caught the glare of the neon streetlights and pulsing blue beacons as they moved the corpse to the rear of a waiting ambulance. They lowered the anonymous shape to the ground, placing it neatly alongside three other bodies before affording it the meagre dignity of a blanket. Soon enough they would be loaded and driven away to the mortuary but, for now, the vehicle and its specialist equipment was needed for those still able to benefit.
Steven waited until the paramedics had returned to the scrambled frame of the bus to help with the injured passengers. Glancing around he spotted three policemen, their backs turned to him. They were directing traffic – queues of buses and service vehicles – around the debris-filled carriageway. A fourth officer was busy scribbling into a pocket notebook, moving from one witness to another, their faces ashen with shock. The police were too occupied to pay him any attention.
He moved toward the row of corpses, checking the rear of the ambulance to ensure he was not observed. As he reached the bodies he pulled the digital pocket camera from his coat and checked the battery reading. It would suffice for another dozen shots. Sliding its switch to on, he stepped alongside the first body and bent low, lifting the corner of the bloodied blanket until the face was uncovered. It was unrecognisable, mashed to a pulp of blood and bone with no features resembling eyes, nose or a mouth. The victim wore a dark uniform, polished silver buttons spattered with crimson and the heavy material marked by hundreds of pin-pint fragments of glass. Steven wondered if there was any point taking this victim’s picture. It was too shocking for his newspaper to publish, nevertheless the uniform and its insignia may provide some clue. Fighting back the urge to vomit he clicked the button on the camera and the image was digitally stored for later retrieval. He set aside a tinge of conscience with the knowledge that the registration plate clinging to the remains of the twisted black Jaguar saloon was a Eurostate Government plate, and a military one at that. The registration was already stored away in the camera and his instinct told him there was a story behind this tragic accident.
Steven dropped the fold of the blanket across the faceless head and moved on to the next body. It was a man, features still intact though pale and swollen, with traces of blood where the glass had punctured the skin. The lids of his eyes had partially closed and, to Steven, it seemed the lips had twisted into a final smirk. Pulling the blanket a little further back he could see this victim did not wear a uniform but a dark jacket, a white shirt – expensive cotton weave – and a navy blue tie. Again he activated the camera, storing the image. He reached the third body and lifted away the damp cover. This one was a woman, her eyes fixed straight at him in a look of terror and a thin line of blood congealing down her cheek. Her blazer was torn away, along with the chiffon blouse beneath, to reveal a breast that had been partially sheared from her torso and splinters of ribs puncturing her shredded, bloodied skin. He pressed the button and looked away as he dropped the blanket back into place.
He had just drawn back the blanket on the final body to reveal another faceless mess and a uniform he recognised instantly as that of the bus company when he heard a shout.
“Hey!” He looked up to see one of the paramedics returning to the back of the ambulance, leading a young boy who clutched a bandage to his bleeding scalp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The tone was a mixture of alarm and fury.
“Just wanted to see who they were.” Steven tucked the camera back into his coat pocket. There was no need to photograph the dead bus driver. “I’m a reporter…for the Echo.” He carefully pulled the blanket back over the bloodied stump that was once a head and stepped awa
y from the corpse.
“You’re a sick bastard!” snapped the paramedic, urging the boy to climb into the back of the vehicle. “Get the hell away from here!”
Steven did not need telling twice. Glancing around in a final sweep for clues, he walked briskly back toward his car, five or six vehicles back along the blocked inside lane behind the crumpled bus, exactly where it had skidded to a sudden halt. His relief had been immense when the car pulled up inches short of the bread van in front. A fraction of a second later it had doubled when the lorry behind screeched loudly, its locked tyres fighting the rain-sodden tarmac, but narrowly avoided compacting his boot. He had never yet pranged a Western Mail & Echo pool car but he remembered that the last unfortunate reporter who did had been banned from using company vehicles and forced to make do with feet, bicycles and public transport for three months, even though the crash was later proved to be the other driver’s fault. The days when reporters, and even editors for that matter, owned their own cars were long gone.
He pulled open the door. In his haste to find out what had happened he had not bothered to lock it. At least he had the sense to switch off the engine before clambering out to investigate. The batteries in these Micro-Metros were only good for an hour or so before they needed recharging. A quick assessment of the three-lane carriageway told him he would be stuck here for a while yet. The police had only just managed to get the outside lane moving, probably to allow other emergency vehicles access to the scene. The middle lane and his were completely stationary. Steven climbed inside, closing the door against the rain and unclipping his mobile phone.
“Newsdesk,” the voice at the other end barked after two short rings.
“Jerry?” There was no real need to ask, it was habit. Those sharp distinctive tones always produced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It’s Steve…look, I’m stuck behind an RTA on Western Avenue…serious one…doesn’t look like I’ll be mobile again for…maybe an hour. Any chance you can get someone else out to that student demo?”
Experiment With Destiny Page 5