Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero Book 1)

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "The chief surgeon, after twenty-eight hours without rest, faced surely the most delicate procedure ever attempted on a human brain. Doctor G needed to manipulate synaptic receptors in such a way that they could forge new, unique connections between parts of the brain that had previously been unable to communicate with each other. Epigenetic creation is still a field which remains unknown outside the secret labs of the Miltech team."

  Synaptic receptors? Epigenetic creation? Drivel and tosh. Miltech is a fantasy, too, doesn't exist. Still, on the face of it, a hidden rural laboratory seems more plausible than an underground complex so close to the Liverpool Street Underground that, in some of its corridors, you can put your hand on the walls and feel the vibrations of the tube trains as they pass.

  The rest of the book is mostly nonsense. National security is invoked on page one. Details have been changed, locations moved, real names concealed, blah blah blah. Hilarious, really, as that means everything that follows could be fiction. Which, for the main part, it is. The patriotic jingoism really got my goat, I must admit. The Deterrent of the book is such a bore once he starts talking, full of awful soundbites about queen and country. I skimmed those parts.

  They used my notes about teaching sessions almost verbatim although there's an extra chapter detailing the months when he couldn't yet speak at all. Their fictional injured soldier suffered such extensive brain damage that he needed to learn to talk again. I (or rather HT Bowthorpe) gradually drew out his latent abilities over the course of about sixty pages, introducing him to the Peter and Jane books and taking him out for occasional walks. It's all very heart-warming.

  The bulk of the book is a celebration of all the amazing feats performed by The Deterrent between October sixth, nineteen seventy-nine and November twenty-first, nineteen eighty-one. Most of these are in the public domain already, but the book adds little details and tedious quotes from The Deterrent. "I was proud to lend a hand to the air force and locate the terrorist group which was violently opposed to our entire way of life. After eliminating the threat, we celebrated with a flask of tea. A taste of home out in the desert!"

  Only one sentence about the Brixton riots. "I helped police control the rioters and looters before being called away by MI5 to deal with a far more dangerous situation which, even now, I cannot reveal."

  Hmm. As far as memory serves, the "far more dangerous situation" in question involved Abos hovering outside my bedroom window. I can see why MI5 wouldn't want to reveal that.

  As for the events of November twenty-third, nineteen eighty-one, the last, comparatively short, chapter covers that. A well-documented night of freak weather provided Station with enough of a smokescreen to suggest why no one has seen The Deterrent since that night.

  In a five-hour period, the United Kingdom was hit by the highest amount of tornadoes ever experienced by a European country. None of them were particularly strong, but, during the evening, the middle of the country, from North Wales across to Norfolk was visited by a hundred and five reported tornadoes.

  As this is a matter of public record, it's easy enough for the book to hint that such a freak occurrence in our national weather system may not have been entirely natural. According to the book, The Deterrent left London at seven pm to investigate the tornado reports. He flew north-east to Norfolk, where the highest confluence of storms had been reported. He never returned.

  Bowthorpe leaves it to the reader to extrapolate. In the years following The Deterrent's disappearance, a deluge of books and magazine articles, plus Hollywood's various attempts to tell the story, have advanced many fantastical theories. All choose between the same three possibilities. The Deterrent is either:

  1) dead

  2) held by persons unknown, or

  3) intentionally missing

  2) is surprisingly popular, considering the fact that Abos has superpowers. If a group out there had the wherewithal to defeat him, surely the world would have heard more from them since.

  The books suggesting alien intervention sell remarkably well.

  1) and 3) are the only options that make any kind of sense, really.

  According to the book, the last person to see The Deterrent alive was one Corporal Evan Todd. Corporal Todd had this to say.

  "He told me he would be back by nine-thirty, as some of the boys were showing The Great Escape in the Mess, and it was one of his favourite films. He was in good spirits. Positive, motivated, full of energy, as always. We exchanged salutes at the door, then he took off. I watched him go. I never got tired of watching that. Seeing a man fly. Incredible. When he didn't come back for the film, I knew something was wrong. We still haven't got over it, any of the squad, we're all gutted. I still can't believe I'm the last person who ever saw that fine soldier alive."

  That's because you're not, Todd. I am. And, trust me, he wasn't planning on going anywhere near any hurricanes. What actually happened was far stranger, far more disturbing than that.

  And far sadder.

  I suppose part of the reason it's taken me ten years to write about that night is because it nearly ruined my feelings about Abos forever. I took a long time to even start thinking about what happened. And it wasn't as if I could speak to anyone.

  I don't want to go into detail about everything, even now. I know it's supposed to be cathartic, that we're supposed to face our traumatic memories in the interests of good mental health. I've read the books. But, at heart, I'm an old-fashioned kind of girl. Some things are better left locked away.

  This account will be the only time I'll look back fully. I'll make myself remember everything that happened, even if I won't share all of it. Not even with you, dear diary.

  There's one last reason I've hesitated to write what I'm about to write. If...when this diary finally comes to light, it will confirm the truth of a particularly lurid thread of newspaper stories that dogged The Deterrent. Stories that were ignored by some papers, but that proved irresistible to the tabloids. I'm sure most people dismissed them as nonsense, given the clean-cut, old-fashionedly gallant image always enjoyed by Abos.

  I remember the first story clearly. It was on the A-board outside my local newsagent early in nineteen eighty.

  MY SUPER-SEX SESSION WITH THE DETERRENT

  I walked into the shop in a daze and bought the paper, sitting in a coffee shop to read it. Large photographs of the 'lady' in question dominated the story. Mandy Harbin was pictured in various stages of undress, doing her best to imitate the pouty models who appeared on other pages of the same rag.

  Her story seemed to be nothing more than a transparent attempt by a busty young girl with no prospects to make money and perhaps launch a career at the sordid end of the modelling business.

  Ms Harbin claimed that The Deterrent had singled her out while signing autographs after rescuing a crane operator from almost certain death. A photograph reprinted in the paper, clearly shows Mandy Harbin holding out her arm for Abos to sign. They had met. There was no doubt about that. The part of the story that stretched credulity was the subsequent late-night visit to her maisonette (she claimed to have whispered her address to him), where they, in her words, "made love first on the bed, then in the shower, then on the stairs. It was romantic."

  The bed, the shower...and the stairs. Romantic indeed.

  I remember stuffing the paper into the first bin I saw. It never occurred to me that there might be even a grain of truth in it.

  Even when other women came forward, I refused to believe it. Their stories were remarkably similar - The Deterrent had visited them at night after he had met them at one event or another. Some of the women took the same route as Ms Harbin, appearing in tabloids in their underwear, but others kept their clothes on, perhaps in an attempt to seem more credible. None of them had witnesses to collaborate their stories. Apparently, this seven-foot man could get into their bedrooms without being seen by a single neighbour. One memorable claim came from a student who lived in a house shared with five others, none of whom saw anything.


  Since the main newspaper printing the stories (which I still can't bring myself to name) was offering cash for women to come forward, The Deterrent's press office didn't even bother responding to them. But the claims didn't go away.

  SUPERSTUD KNOCKED ME UP!

  SUPERBABY DUE IN SEPTEMBER

  EVEN THE PILL COULDN'T STOP HIM!

  The paper followed her through each trimester to its inevitable conclusion. In September, we were treated to the sight of a bonny baby in the arms of a proud-looking Mandy. A healthy, completely normal baby. The press looked in on her now and then in the years following, but, in the absence of pictures of the toddler flying around the house or lifting cars over his head, they lost interest. Mandy gradually disappeared from the magazines and the chat shows, as did the other women who had claimed The Deterrent to be the father of their children.

  It all looked like a publicity stunt by the gutter press, involving the exploitation of some desperate women.

  Never, not even for a moment, did I suspect it was true.

  Then Abos came to me.

  I've sipped too much whisky writing this. I'll continue tomorrow with a clearer head.

  38

  November 23rd, 1991

  That's better. It's wonderful the positive effect a bowl of porridge and a strong cup of Assam can have.

  No more prevarication, Cress. Today marks the tenth anniversary of the last time I saw him.

  I imagine a lot of people remember that night for another reason: the unnatural weather. London was expecting a few of the freak tornadoes, so I had decided on an early night with a good book and a mug of cocoa. There's nothing better than curling up in a warm bed while a storm rages outside.

  I must have fallen asleep while reading because when I woke up just after midnight, the book was in my hand and my bedside light was still on. I went to the bathroom and cleaned my teeth. As I was about to get into bed, I had the same feeling I'd had that night in April, the night of the Brixton riot. I stood still for a few moments and convinced myself I was being silly. I got into bed and turned out the light.

  I lay there with my eyes open and my heart thumping. Then I got up again, crossed the room and, before I could think too hard about what I was doing, drew the curtains apart.

  He was there.

  Eventually, I opened the window.

  "Hello, Cress." He looked like an angel floating there, his golden eyes turned silver by the moonlight. He smiled. A small, tentative smile.

  "Hello, Abos." I didn't know what to say. If Station knew he was here, I was likely to spend the rest of my life locked up in an institution. But I couldn't send him away.

  "Wait there," I said, "I'll let you in."

  I went to close the window, intending to go to the back door. He stopped me, turned sideways and entered the room headfirst as I backed away in surprise.

  Abos landed lightly on the carpet, his head close to the ceiling. I put out my hand. His smile deepened, and he shook it. I smiled, too, remembering how I had taught him this most British form of greeting.

  "Cress, I—I have waited so long."

  I took his hand again and held it, looking up at that face I remembered so well.

  "I'm sorry, Abos. I was not allowed to see you."

  "I know. Mr Carstairs said you were too busy. He said I could have other treats. He let me have lots. But I still asked for you. He got angry, and I had to stop asking. I pretended to forget you. That made him happy. But I didn't forget, Cress."

  It was the longest speech I had ever heard from Abos. Much of it didn't make sense. Treats? And it seemed he wasn't just respectful, but afraid of Carstairs. Father's drugs had been used to place Abos in some sort of dependent relationship with that twisted man. I bristled at the idea and decided it was time to tell Abos the truth.

  But what he did next stopped me.

  He let go of my hand and pulled his jumper over his head. He was bare-chested beneath. I suddenly became very aware that I was only wearing a cotton nightie. He took my hand again and placed it on his chest. His solid, muscled chest. I swallowed hard.

  "Abos, listen to me. The way Carstairs has been teaching you, the life you lead, it's not—"

  I stopped speaking because Abos was kissing me. For half a second, I felt myself respond, a physical reaction to this beautiful man. But I, of all people, knew he was far from human. For most of a decade, I had watched scientists try to take readings and get samples from what looked like a large glass cylinder with some mouldy soup inside it. I had seen him change from his mushy pea state and become a superior copy of Roger. I had watched him learn our language and our ways, then seen how he was manipulated and controlled by the very people who should have been helping and supporting him.

  There was no way I could let this happen. My body wanted to respond, but I knew it would be a huge mistake.

  I put both hands on his chest and pushed him gently, but firmly, away. He took a small step back and looked at me.

  "No," I said.

  I looked into his eyes and saw something that scared me. I knew he had heard me, but it was if what I had said hadn't registered.

  "No, Abos," I said, more loudly this time. I knew where I'd seen that look before. It was the same look Roger had given me outside the pub that night. The same look Abos had given me in front of Carstairs that one, excruciating, occasion when he had stared at my body rather than my face. It was a look of pure sexual desire.

  Abos reached forwards, took the top of my nightie in his hands and tore it in two. I stumbled backwards, naked, beginning to panic. He followed, picked me up and lay me on the bed. His hands were on my breasts, then he was climbing onto the bed next to me, undoing his belt.

  He bent over me and kissed me again. He tried to kiss me with his mouth open, his tongue darting straight into my mouth. I'd been kissed like that just once before. At school. Behind, would you believe it, the bike sheds. The memory of that bit of adolescent fumbling came into any mind as Abos's knee forced my legs apart.

  Something had just become very clear to me.

  I slapped Abos as hard as I could across his face. He paused for a second and looked at me, the tiniest bit of confusion registering along with his lust.

  "Abos, stop this! Do you care about me? Do you care about me at all?"

  He pushed himself up and off me.

  "Of course, Cress. Yes. You know I do."

  "Then you must stop this. If you care about me, you need to stop and we need to talk."

  He looked crestfallen. The glaze of lust faded, then disappeared as he looked at my expression and the way I was holding my arms across my breasts. I remembered his early lessons when he talked about the language of the body. If he was as good at reading it as he claimed, he could hardly miss the signs I was giving off now. He began doing up his belt.

  I walked quickly to the door and put on my dressing gown, before sitting back on the bed. I patted the space next to me, still trembling with shock and adrenaline. I attempted to control my breathing and settle my mind. My own feelings about what had just happened could wait until later. Right now, I wanted to make a dent in Carstair's conditioning. I was determined to prevent Abos becoming a superpowered sexual predator. For the sake of women everywhere. And for his own sake.

  "Put your clothes back on and sit down, Abos."

  He did as he was told but still looked puzzled about what was happening. He had obviously been expecting me to respond positively to his sexual overtures and was confused by my adverse reaction.

  An intuition came to me.

  "Abos. These treats and rewards you mentioned. Are they women?"

  He nodded without a hint of guile. "Yes. Mr Carstairs says I deserve a treat because I work so hard."

  "So when you go on missions, how do you find these treats, these women? Does Mr Carstairs find them for you?"

  He nodded. "Usually. Sometimes women ask me to visit them."

  It wasn't hard to believe that women would throw themselves at hi
m.

  I tried to marshal my thoughts, wondering how long the drugs Carstairs administered were effective. According to the chart I'd seen, Abos took his 'vitamin mix' daily at eight am. It was now twenty-five minutes past midnight. Sixteen and a half hours since his last dose. Seven and a half until his next. If he still slept for four to six hours a night, it was possible that, this late, he might be more clear-headed. I couldn't hope to undo two and a half years of chemical and psychological interference, but I might sow a seed of doubt.

  What actually happened was something I hadn't anticipated.

  Abos happily admitted to having sex with hundreds of women. When I asked about Mandy Harbin's baby, he looked blank. A few more gentle questions, and it was clear that he didn't really understand that sexual intercourse could lead to pregnancy. In Mandy's case, if she was now to be believed, despite the fact that she was on the pill.

  How many other women might he have impregnated if contraception couldn't stop him?

  I moved the conversation on to consent. This was an utterly unfamiliar concept to Abos. In his opinion, every woman wanted to have sex with him. He had no doubt about it. All his experience had confirmed it. Then he admitted something that made my blood run cold. I wasn't the first to resist him, but Carstairs had assured him that a little physical foreplay was sometimes to be expected.

  I felt sick. Had he raped women?

  Carstairs had objectified the opposite sex so thoroughly in Abos's mind that he regarded them merely as vessels for his pleasure after he had fulfilled whatever task his masters had asked of him.

  The only reason, it seems, that Carstairs hadn't succeeded completely in his attempt to ensnare Abos's mind entirely, was me. Or, rather, the attitude towards me embedded in Abos's consciousness long before Carstairs turned up. As far as Abos was concerned, I was the equal of all other human beings he had worked with.In some ways, he deferred to me, as I was his teacher. My authority had been diminished when our meetings were stopped, as Carstairs formulated his scheme to control Abos, but he had underestimated the strength of that initial connection.