Time of the Demon

by Ian Taylor

  "Okay. I'll give it twenty-four hours."

  She was going into this with all her doubts before her. But she was intrigued. She watched him relax and sensed his energy rising, focusing. Observing his watchful alertness, she thought him a hunter. But all hunters were predators. And some were dangerous.

  "Make it thirty-six," he said, easing back in his seat and studying her with dark shrewd eyes. "Midnight tomorrow. After that, if we've made no progress, you can do what you want."

  He extended his hand. With the slightest of hesitations, she grasped it.

  3

  Jan sat at her small cluttered desk in the Evening Courier's back office, talking on her office phone. She’d decided to have one more go at chasing Hemingway and began by approaching county forces, starting with the local one and working outwards. Her one-sided conversations went something like this:

  "Jan Barnes, yes. B-A-R-N-E-S. Could I speak to Superintendent Hemingway please? ...I'm sorry? ...You've no one with that name? ...But you must. I spoke to him yesterday ...I don't get names wrong. It was Hemingway: H-E-M-I-N-G-W-A-Y. It's not a name you'd easily forget. ...Okay. Suit yourself."

  No matter how persistent she was, she got nowhere. After ringing ten county forces, all with negative results, she gave up. She tried the Met, but was put through to someone called Smythe at Personnel, who answered her questions with ones of his own; she found she was on the receiving end of unlooked-for grilling. She refused to answer Smythe's questions and he did the same with hers. She rang off with a frustrated sigh.

  What was she left with? Special Branch? MI5? But MI5 didn't wear police uniforms. Perhaps the MoD police? She dare not contact any of them for fear of attracting unwanted attention to herself and the paper. But she had established that Hemingway, if that was his real name, belonged in a much more covert world than any she'd experienced in the past.

  She rang one of her contacts in the local force. "Jan Barnes from the Courier. I'd like to speak to Inspector Parker , please ... I'll hang on."

  She turned on speakerphone. While she waited, she took out the framed photograph of Jess and Gina from her handbag, removed its cheap frame, and put it in an envelope. Returning the photo to her bag, she threw the frame in the bin.

  Inspector Parker's voice boomed from the speakerphone. "Afternoon, Jan. How

  can I help you?"

  She picked up the phone and put it off speakerphone. "Hi Ron, I'm just trying to get up to speed on the incident at the Half Moon yesterday evening. Come on, it was a UFO that crash-landed, wasn't it? ...A hoax? How d'you mean? ...Two bored bar girls having a laugh? That's not what I've heard! ...You're considering charging them for wasting police time? So we're supposed to go around with our eyes shut now and not report anything suspicious? I've a good mind to put that in the paper! ...Oh, case closed, is it? And whose decision was that? ... I'm not being difficult, I'm only trying to do my job–and that's to publish the truth!"

  Had she compromised Jess and Gina? Would Parker make the connection and realise she must have spoken to them? Would he talk to his superiors? In what was beginning to look like a very serious case, should she alert the girls to the attitude of the police? Before she reached a decision, Russell stuck his head around the door.

  "Busy, Jan?" He offered his usual exhausted smile.

  "Never too busy to speak to you."

  "Good. I'd like a word. Pop into my office in a couple of minutes, please."

  She decided not to contact the girls. They’d just have to say the reporter was lying. She felt they were smart enough to do that. The Half Moon piece had to be written though, but from her own point of view, omitting mention of the girls. She hopped to her feet with fresh determination and headed for the editor's office.

  Russell smiled wearily. "Take a seat, Jan."

  She perched on the edge of the nearest chair. Russell glanced over, then shifted his gaze to a point on the wall a little above her left shoulder, his usual focus of attack. "Please don't hate me for this, Jan. But I want you to lay off the Half Moon thing."

  She'd had enough. She felt her anger rising and made no attempt to contain it. "Give me two good reasons why I should!"

  Russell put on his apologetic face. "I just want you to take my word that there's no mileage in it."

  There was a touch of helplessness in her editor's hollow smile. But she had no sympathy. "Don't you want to sell papers?" she asked in exasperation.

  He shook his head. "Not like this."

  "I'm within hours of a scoop! It's a hell of a first for the Courier!"

  "Nevertheless, you'll have to lay off. It's official." He made a fleeting attempt to appear enthusiastic. "I want you to cover the fire at High Barn Farm. Looks like arson. Police investigators are up there now. Take Alec and his camera."

  "Who's been leaning on you, Russell?" she asked angrily. "He's not called Hemingway by any chance?"

  "You know very well, Jan, if I was the owner of this newspaper things might be very different. Sadly, I have to play by other folks' rules."

  "In other words, you don't want to wreck your retirement," she said sourly.

  He looked hurt. "Steady, Jan. No personal attacks, please. If you were in my position, you'd have to do the same."

  She sighed loudly. "Arson at High Barn it is then. Now there's a bit of really hot news."

  He returned her sarcasm: "I don't doubt you'll extract the most heat you can from it."

  She was about to slam out of his office, but changed her mind and turned in the doorway. "So far you've only given me one reason for laying off the Half Moon thing."

  When Jan and Alec, a young press photographer, got up to High Barn Farm, they found the badly fire-damaged remains of a remote and long-derelict farmhouse, and a police forensics team combing through the debris.

  A lanky uniformed constable commanded the gap where a front garden gate had once been. She learned from him that the place had been occupied by squatters. On the night before the authorities were due to evict them, they’d torched the place and disappeared.

  Her growing distrust of officialdom caused her to feel sorry for the squatters. She decided to write a piece giving the situation from both sides and mention the prohibitive price of property in England. People had to live somewhere and, after all, the owner of High Barn was an affluent farmer who was also a local magistrate. He couldn't lose. He had two other farms and still owned the land the burned-out house stood on. And he'd collect the insurance, for sure.

  And the squatters? They had to take their chances, like poor folk everywhere. In such an imbalanced society, squatters may well be the future. Russell would disapprove of the piece, but he might let it pass.

  While Alec took photographs, she retreated to her car and phoned Greg. "So here I am, sent into the wilderness. No Hemingway, local force in denial, case officially closed, big cover-up. I feel like screaming."

  Greg was also in his car, parked in a lay-by on a lonesome country road. "Apparently the county's police have been on high alert for the past week. Why? Because they're expecting hordes of little grey men in flying machines. Don't ask me who started that story, but it's one reason why Hemingway had to get to the inn ahead of emergency services. And," he added wryly, "ahead of people like you."

  "So it is some kind of secret military device?" She could hardly believe she was hearing her own voice asking the question.

  "I'm pretty sure of it. And local law enforcement had to be kept in the dark."

  "But Hemingway got there so fast. He must be local."

  "Not necessarily. They might have been physically tracking it."

  "The chopper could have been, but surely not the cars?"

  "Hemingway might have been waiting for the device. Even if it went off course, they were obviously close to the target area, or the local police would have arrived there first."

  His words chilled her to the bone. "Target area?" she echoed softly.

  "Some MoD site. It can't be far away from where the light came
down."

  "You think it was some kind of military experiment?"

  "What I think is far too sensitive to talk about on mobile phones. By the way, yours might soon become insecure. Please change it asap or we'll be out of contact." He rang off and pulled out of the lay-by.

  Just as Jan's phone call ended, Alec jumped into the passenger seat. "Got all I need, Jan. How about you?"

  "I think I need a new head," she replied quietly.

  The bedside clock showed 1.30 a. m. Jan tossed and turned, in the grip of a dream.

  Fleeting images of police vehicles, flashing blue lights, a whirling helicopter's searchlight.

  Jess and Gina dance across an expanse of deserted tarmac with two sharp-suited men. A range of low buildings occupies the background. The girls give Jan knowing looks as they sweep past and whirl into the distance.

  Superintendent Hemingway strides towards her across the weed-lined tarmac. He reaches into a pocket of an anonymous uniform and produces a glowing sphere of bright white light. He extends the light, as if offering it for her inspection.

  She peers at it. A figure is discernible within.

  The figure writhes, as if in intolerable agony, trapped in the sphere of light. She realises that the figure is none other than herself.

  Jan awoke with a start, staggered to the window, and looked out. In spite of urban

  light pollution, from her top-floor flat she could see the moon through tufts of broken cloud. Bare trees in the park opposite rattled autumnal branches in the wind like witch doctors casting bones. There wasn't a UFO in sight.

  For the first time in her life, she began to doubt the truth of her own perceptions. She almost convinced herself that the solid floor she stood on was changing under her feet, becoming water, or air–and she was going to fall through any moment. The only thing that had so far prevented her fall was the belief that the floor was indeed solid.

  What happened when belief was truly suspended? What happened to normality? She had the overwhelming feeling that the world she’d always taken for granted had begun to shift sideways, into something nameless and incomprehensible.

  She sat at the kitchen table with coffee and buttered toast. She could clearly remember the dream and its imagery filled her with foreboding. Another odd factor in what was already a deeply disturbing experience: she thought she recognised the setting.

  That range of low buildings belonged to a site that had been requisitioned in the Second World War for use as an emergency air strip and local authority bunker. The site lay among farmland barely five miles to the north of the Half Moon Inn. She’d assumed the place had been abandoned, as so many had been, but perhaps that wasn’t the case.

  She wondered if the dream was some kind of warning. Fear lurched in her stomach.

  Taking her notebook from her handbag, she flipped through the pages until she found Gina's hastily jotted mobile number. She keyed the number into her new mobile, but all she heard was three beeps, followed by a continuous flat tone. She tried again, with the same result. Damn! Was the phone out of commission?

  She tossed the mobile into her handbag, finished the now tepid coffee, slipped on her coat and shoes, and hurried out. Ignoring Greg's warning about hidden cameras, she went straight to the girls' flat and tried the doorbell. No response. She didn't care that she might be watched. She feared for the girls' safety and had to help them get away and, if necessary, go into hiding.

  She tried again. Nothing. Was she already too late? She peered through the letterbox, but saw only carpet and skirting boards. The carpet, she noticed, was a different colour and in much better condition than the one she’d seen on her previous visit. What the hell was going on?

  She placed her mouth close to the opening. "Gina? Jess?"

  Silence.

  "Jess? Gina? It's Jan from the Courier."

  A door opened down the corridor. “Shit”, she thought aloud, “I've woken people up.”

  A brawny tattooed guy in ash-grey joggers and black singlet stepped out. She braced herself for a tirade. "They've gone, love."

  The warm friendly tone didn't fit with the hour of the night or her stereotypical image of muscles and tattoos.

  "Gone?" she blurted. "Where?"

  Her recent impression of normality's impending disappearance was blocking rational thoughts.

  The brawny guy waved an arm. "Go in and see for yourself, love. The door's open."

  His words brought her back, like a bridge, to her usual decisive self. She tried the door, which was indeed unlocked. She stepped cautiously inside and was shocked by what she found–which was, in fact, nothing. The girls’ memorabilia and personal possessions were gone. The rooms were bare, freshly repainted, and newly carpeted. Even the furniture had been removed, although it had probably belonged to the property owner. It was as if Jess and Gina had never set foot there. Had the two been contaminated in some way? Was this the reason for the radical clearout?

  The brawny guy's voice made her jump. "Called on 'em an hour back. I thought they were bound to be in. Owed me money, see. Found it just like this. Couldn't believe it. Changed the place completely and I never heard a thing!" He looked knowingly at Jan. "Owed you too, did they?"

  She shrugged. "A fair bit, as it happens." She wasn’t going to prove a soft touch.

  Had there been a hidden mic in the flat? Had Hemingway & Co heard everything the girls had said? Maybe she was also a suspect? Perhaps it was only a matter of hours before the suits picked her up.

  h The brawny guy scratched the back of his thick neck as they stared at the empty living room. "It's like the whole place has been bagged up and whisked away by some kind of black magic. It don't seem right to me. Whoever did this, you don't want 'em in your life."

  Jan, in complete agreement, said nothing.

  4

  At eight o'clock that morning, in the city to the east of the Half Moon Inn, Jan and Greg strolled past a small lake in a large municipal park. He threw grain to the ducks and passed some to her.

  "Be natural," he said with a jovial smile. "We're here to feed the ducks."

  She didn't know whether to laugh or to take him seriously. "Are we being followed–or are you just paranoid?"

  "It's always best in a public space to be doing something normal. That's one way to remain invisible. If we feed the ducks, people will watch the birds, not us."

  Yes, she thought, blend in, be a chameleon. The unobserved observer. A way of life she might have to cultivate. They walked on a little way and threw more grain.

  "So we've lost the girls?" he asked casually, watching the ducks.

  "They've gone. I was too late to help them. Not that I had a clue what I was going to do."

  "Typical."

  "What is?"

  "Everything removed. Place transformed. Occupants disappeared." He shrugged limply. "It happens. But new paintwork and carpets seem excessive."

  "They owed money. The locals will think they've done a runner."

  "That's a good conventional explanation. They'd never believe the truth anyway."

  "What is the truth?"

  "It could be something so staggering that even a couple of years ago I'd have had trouble believing it. The property's probably contaminated. But by what, of course, we don't know."

  "So the girls could be sick? They did have very inflamed eyes."

  "Typical again."

  They continued walking in silence, then stopped and threw the last of the grain.

  "The inn's closed and boarded up," he informed her. "I drove past earlier. The police tape's gone, but there's a DANGER KEEP OUT sign on the gate to the field."

  "I'm surprised you went to look. I thought you had a thing about surveillance cameras?"

  "Questioning witnesses is one thing. Looking at field gates is another. Anyway, there was no one lurking with binoculars. At least, not so far today."

  "So the inn's contaminated?"

  Greg nodded curtly. "Almost certainly. But the field behind the i
nn will be the centre of any heavy residues. At the time of the incident, the police didn't set foot in the field, did they?"

  "Apart from Hemingway and a uniformed robot they stayed in their cars," she confirmed.

  "They won't want anyone near the place for years. The MoD might even buy the property through some proxy company. Then just leave it empty. It depends on the level of contamination."

  Jan thought about the unlawful tenants at High Barn Farm. "It might attract squatters."

  He shrugged. "Bad luck for them. Burning down the place might be the best solution."

  She had the feeling he was leading her into very dark territory. "This is getting creepy."

  "You can drop out any time you want. It's not too late."

  "Is that a warning?"

  "Beyond a certain point, there's no way back."

  "How will I know when I've reached it?"

  "You'll know.” He regarded her intently. “Are you in?"

  She wasn't sure. But was she going to spend the rest of her life on a provincial newspaper? The incident at the inn was forcing her to make a life-changing choice. With a shock,s she realised she might already be past the point of no return. She wanted desperately to know what had happened to the girls. The idea of their unjust suffering was outrageous. Her social conscience had been awakened. How dare these anonymous powers invade folks' lives–ruin them and never be held accountable! Gina and Jess were collateral damage of so-called peacetime. She had to oppose this.

  "I'm in," she announced decisively. "I can't go back to reporting on official openings and society weddings."

  He gave her a searching look. "Great. But whatever happens, remember never to lose your sense of humour. It keeps us grounded. It's the surest way to maintain sanity."

  She absorbed his advice. "So what's the next move?" she finally asked.

  "We should have a closer look at UFOs. Take a little trip into their world. I need to make contact again anyway."