The Omega Factor

by Jack Gerson

  He heard the sound again, or thought he did.

  He glanced briefly at Julia. She was curled up comfortably in the passenger seat, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her eyes seemed heavy; she was on the verge of dozing off.

  He became aware of the sound again, louder this time.

  And he recognised 'it.

  A pulsating tone, distant but familiar.

  He had heard it the night before as he ran towards the telephone box.

  He shook his head again, violently in an effort to clear it. He knew the sound was in his head only; knew it had no existence outside his head.

  Julia, disturbed by the violent movement, stirred and looked up at him. She saw his face dimly in the reflected light from the dashboard, the jaw taut, the eyes narrowed, and alert. Listening.

  'Are you all right?' she asked.

  He nodded vaguely.

  In his head the sound grew louder. For a. moment he thought, why can't she hear it, why doesn't she say something, question its origin. Then again he knew it was only in his head, that she could hear nothing.

  The sound was now beating down on him. And yet still he knew it was from within.

  The flash of whiteness across his eyes. Automatically his foot moved on the brake but the whiteness was gone and the road clear in the headlights. But in that whiteness for a fraction of a second he had seen something else.

  The body of Margaret Christie.

  Crane's hands started to shake. Julia looked from his face to his hands and could see the tremors.

  'Tom!'

  He didn't answer but gripped the wheel harder to stop his hands from shaking. At the same time his foot went down on the accelerator.

  The car leaped forward. The trees, flashing past, seemed even thicker and darker.

  Julia was erect in her seat now, wide-eyed. She was staring at his hands on the wheel, the knuckles white with pressure.

  His head was now filled with sound, pulsating, matching his heart beats. The road in front blurred again and across the blurred image was the patch of white, scarlet slashing across it.

  Then again the whiteness vanished and Crane saw the road ahead, bright in the headlights of the car.

  And in the middle of the road, dead ahead, almost gliding towards him was the girl, Morag.

  Crane knew he couldn't avoid hitting her yet he wrenched the steering wheel round, at the same time slamming his foot on the brake.

  The car veered around, brakes screaming in protest. He braced himself to feel the impact of the girl's body against the car but it didn't happen. It was as if she had been there for a fleeting moment and then she was no longer there, but dissolved into blackness.

  The car was now in an uncontrollable skid. Crane wrestled with the wheel, momentarily aware of Julia, one hand on the dashboard, bracing herself. The car seemed to right itself, the wheel coming under his control. But despite his foot hard down on the brake, the speed had barely lessened. The front wheels hit the edge of the grass bank at the side of the road, the front of the car rose up, tearing through a wire fence and the entire bodywork shuddered.

  Crane saw the tree quite distinctly before the car smashed into it. He saw, or imagined he saw the texture of the bark, even a yellow patch devoid of bark which had been scraped away. Then came the impact.

  The bonnet was smashed inwards pushing the engine back and downwards. The bole of the tree drove deep into the front of the car and in an instant, from moving at over fifty miles an hour, the car, or the tangled metal that the car had become, stopped for a fraction of a second. Then the rear rose up and it swayed almost onto its side before righting itself like some wounded animal struggling to stay on its feet.

  At the moment of impact, the windscreen fragmented and Crane was aware of Julia's body being thrown forward. Then his own world leaped and twisted around him and he was propelled against the door which burst open throwing him into the night.

  The noise of the crash seemed to assail his ears after it was actually over. The sound of rending, screaming metal being twisted and distorted in an instant pounded against his ear drums. And then there was a silence.

  Something damp was pressing into Crane's cheek. He stirred and tried to move. His face was against a patch of wet grass. He peered around struggling to rise. To his left was the twisted metal and glass of the driving door hanging from one hinge. He realised his feet were somehow still touching the car and he raised them clear of the metal before pushing himself up onto his knees.

  There was a sound now, a ticking noise from somewhere behind his right shoulder. He turned his head to find himself staring at the rear wheel of the car protruding at a strange angle from the body and still spinning against air. This was the ticking sound.

  Something warm was on his forehead and as he stood rather shakily, he put his hand to his brow. It came away damp with warm blood. He could feel the cut, not deep but a long slash across his forehead.

  A minute passed.

  He was standing swaying on a knoll of grass. He thought, the girl Morag, on the road, he had seen her. He stared back at the road. Clouds had cleared from the night sky and a pale moon illuminated the road for some fifty yards back.

  The road was empty.

  Nothing. No body. No girl.

  Julia!

  It seemed he spoke her name aloud, almost shouted it as he turned back to the car.

  He moved quickly now, practically throwing himself across the driving seat towards the shape opposite. As he did so he reached up automatically to the roof light and switched it on. Amazingly it was still working and the car was filled with yellow light.

  Julia was staring up at him, eyes wide open and yet sightless. The face was relaxed and quite beautiful until he saw the forehead. From the hairline upwards there was only the rich scarlet of blood. His eyes moved up to the whiteness of the opaque windscreen.

  Across the whiteness was the slash of blood, the exact shape he had seen before. It ran down in fast, drying deltas of colour to Julia's head.

  Crane cradled her body in his arms, staring at the windscreen until the tears came to his eyes and ran down the furrows of his cheeks.

  It was half an hour before a passing car stopped and the driver found Tom Crane still holding the body of his dead wife.

  EIGHT

  Twenty hours in a sterile white hospital room was enough for Tom Crane. Apart from the cut in his forehead and some minor bruising he was unhurt. Nevertheless, afraid of concussion or some nervous reaction the doctor, a stocky, grey Edinburgh physician, tried to persuade him to stay in hospital at least for forty-eight hours. Crane wouldn't listen. He discharged himself and a phone call to Anne Reynolds brought her to meet him. To his surprise she told him there would be no fatal accident inquiry. He asked her why, believing it a necessity in Scots law. She smiled and explained the Procurator-Fiscal was a friend and she hinted at influence. He was too tired to press her further. He spent the night in her spare room and the next day flew to London with Julia's body.

  Anne insisted on accompanying him. After all Julia had been her best friend and in her own way she mourned with Crane. They spoke very little on the flight to Heathrow, Crane, expressionless, staring out of the window during the short flight, and Anne respecting his silence.

  He insisted on reciprocating by inviting her to stay in the spare room in his flat. Indeed he welcomed her presence. The flat was too full of Julia and of their life together to be other than agonisingly painful to him and a comparative stranger provided some distraction from his thoughts.

  The first few hours in London were spent arranging the funeral. Anne prepared a meal as Crane made phone calls and after these were completed he sat, hunched over an electric fire, staring into space.

  Later he sat politely at the table, expressing gratitude at her help and her concern. Although he had barely eaten since the accident he still toyed with the food and, as he rose from the table, as an afterthought, apologised for his lack of interest in the meal. Anne did
nothing to coax him to eat. She knew the hurt was too great, the wound too raw to allow of anything other than to leave him to his thoughts.

  After the attempt at a meal he poured two large whiskies and handed her one of them.

  Then he spoke.

  'Drexel! It was Drexel.'

  'Can you be sure?'

  He nodded. 'I was meant to die in that car. Like the others died. Like Margaret Christie. And Martindale's friend.'

  And then he told her of the noise, the sound in his ears before the crash and the sight of the girl, Morag, on the road.

  'But there was no one there. You said so yourself. There was no one there afterwards,' she expostulated.

  'I don't think she was there in the flesh. I think Drexel sent her,' he replied, and stirring restlessly in his seat, he ran his hand across the patch of sticking plaster on his brow. 'Don't ask me how or why I'm sure, but I am sure. I don't know how he does it either but I know he was responsible.'

  Anne sipped her drink. 'A kind of astral projection, is that what you mean?'

  He stared at her. You believe in something like that?'

  She shrugged. 'I don't know whether I believe in it. But I've seen enough evidence I can't explain...'

  'I didn't know your work took you into areas like that,' he responded with a curious look.

  'Biophysics sometimes gets you into strange areas,' she replied casually and then changed the subject. 'What will you do now, Tom?'

  'I haven't thought.'

  'You must think about it. Take a holiday perhaps...'

  'No!' His response was sharp, almost angry.

  'Work, then. Keep on with the work?'

  Again he stared at her, his face drawn and tired. 'I'm going to find Drexel!'

  Anne felt a shiver run through her body at the intensity in the words.

  'How? You don't know where he is.'

  'I'll find him.'

  'And if you do, there's no evidence... you can't prove he was responsible. And, Tom, you mustn't do anything stupid.'

  He stood up and refilled his tumbler with whisky. He made a motion to refill hers but she put her hand over the glass.

  He spoke again after a moment. 'I don't intend to do anything stupid. Maybe... maybe I can destroy Drexel with his own weapons.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I'm not sure,' he went on. 'Anne, you were with me when I found the Christie woman's body. I don't know how I knew but I knew. And I knew also that Drexel was afraid of my knowledge... or of this... this ability I have.'

  He sat down again, leaning towards her.

  'Listen to me.' He was forcing himself to go on talking. 'Ever since I went to Edinburgh... in fact before I went, something was happening to me. Before all this I was a fairly calm, ordinary kind of character. I knew where I was going in life, what I wanted to do...'

  He faltered, as if trying to sort out his thoughts.

  'Go on,' Anne said, filled with a kind of relief that he was finally talking again.

  'Then I had this recurrent dream. I don't think it has any connection with the rest of it but it was the beginning of... of uncertainty. Of a nagging lack of confidence in what I was doing. As if there was another part of me I never knew existed and it was all at once coming to the surface. Everything that happened in Edinburgh confirmed that feeling. My entire life's been changing.'

  His voice suddenly cracked and he had to swallow several times before he went on. 'Julia's death... that's the final, the ultimate change. God help me!'

  Anne reached out and touched his hand. Crane stiffened and then relaxed.

  He went on. 'Now I've got something back I thought I was losing. I've got that certainty back. About my life. A different certainty, not a comfortable one any more. But it's there!'

  He drained the tumbler of whisky and stood up again. 'Time you were in bed. You must be tired and we have to be up early for... for the funeral.'

  Yes, I am tired.' She rose and kissed him lightly on the cheek. You get some sleep too, Tom, if you can.'

  'I'll try. But I'll sit for a while. Don't worry, I won't get drunk. I couldn't even if I finished the bottle.'

  Two hours later, lying awake in the guest bedroom, Anne finally heard him walk through the hall to the bedroom. After a while she dozed off and slept fitfully until the dawn's light came through the sides of the curtain.

  At eleven o'clock in the morning they followed Julia's coffin to the graveside. Behind them came friends and colleagues of Julia's.

  The ceremony was short and simple. A light breeze arose as the coffin was lowered and the trees at the edge of the cemetery stirred and their branches rustled above the heads of the mourners.

  Crane stood alone as they passed him with polite words and the customary clichéd phrases. He couldn't blame them for the clichés and he was grateful for their appearance, a mark of their affection for his dead wife. Anne waited some paces behind him until the last of them had moved away and then she came to him, took his arm and led him away from the grave.

  'When are you coming back to Edinburgh?' she asked.

  Crane shrugged. 'Sometime.'

  'The sooner you get back to work...'

  He stopped and looked at her. For a moment she thought he looked like a child.

  'I'll need something to do, I suppose. There's this awful gap now. Emptiness.' He looked back towards the open grave. 'Christ, what a waste!'

  'It's no use blaming yourself...'

  'Why not? It's my fault. If I hadn't got mixed up with Drexel she'd be here now.'

  'Stop it!' Anne dug her fingers into his sleeve. 'You're feeling sorry for yourself. Tom, come back to Edinburgh. Your brother should be back soon...'

  'God, how am I going to tell him?'

  'You'll tell him.'

  Crane looked away from her. 'First I think I've got to get away for a while. Right away, to another country.'

  'And then..?'

  'Then I'll come back and look for Drexel. And maybe return to Edinburgh.'

  They started to walk again towards the entrance to the cemetery. Anne was frowning, unable to rid herself of her concern for him. She had told herself Julia had been her close friend and she should be mourning for Julia. But the dead are dead and concern was a gift to the living.

  Crane was walking, eyes straight ahead, forcing himself to resist any temptation to look back again at the grave. Then quite suddenly there was a movement at the edge of his eye, a stirring by the avenue of trees.

  He looked over.

  She was standing at the side of one of the taller trees staring across at them. And to Crane it seemed she was staring through them to the grave itself.

  The girl, Morag. The girl on the road, the girl who had been with Drexel.

  Crane glanced in the direction of the grave. Two men were now filling it in. He looked back at the girl then turned to Anne,

  'Anne, look..!'

  He pointed to the trees. They both looked over.

  There was no one there.

  Anne looked at him questioningly.

  'It's nothing,' he shrugged and taking her arm walked on quickly. He knew he hadn't been mistaken, knew he had seen the girl. But how could he explain it to Anne? He had told her about the girl appearing on the road and although she had said nothing to indicate disbelief she hadn't seemed entirely convinced. Better to say nothing.

  Late that afternoon he saw her off on the Edinburgh train. They shook hands quite formally on the platform and she went into her compartment quickly, knowing she could not trust herself not to break down.

  Crane returned to his empty fiat, poured himself a whisky, and then started to pack. He was unsure of his destination, had decided to take the boat train to Calais, hire a car and drive. He had been hoping that Michael would have seen the report of the accident that had appeared in most of the Scottish newspapers and would have phoned or wired but so far he had heard nothing.

  He was locking the first of his two suitcases when the doorbell rang. He frowned. Oh, G
od, not visitors and more commiserations; he didn't think he could take any more. Reluctantly he opened the front door of the fiat.

  The man was in late middle age, carrying a heavy woollen overcoat over his left arm. In his right hand he held a rather dusty Anthony Eden hat.

  'Ah, Mr Crane,' he smiled shortsightedly. 'My name is Scott-Erskine. May I come in?'

  The directness of the request took Crane by surprise. He stood back automatically, holding the door open.

  'I'm afraid I'm leaving shortly,' he tried to explain but Scott-Erskine had somehow infiltrated past him into the hall.

  'I shan't keep you long,' the intruder explained amiably. And having explained he wandered to the open door of the living room and entered.

  'Ah, very nice, very nice,' he gave the seal of his approval to the room and then carefully placed hat and coat on the nearest chair.

  Crane suddenly felt exasperated by the intrusion. 'Look here, I don't know who you are...'

  Scott-Erskine brushed aside the protest with a wave of his hand.

  'I did introduce myself. Andrew Scott-Erskine.' He paused as if to make doubly sure the name sank in this time. Then he cleared his throat. 'May I express my sincere condolences on the death of your wife.'

  'Thank you but...'

  Scott-Erskine looked at him with a regretful smile. 'So inadequate, isn't it? The things one says. No matter how sincerely they have no meaning really.'

  Again a pause. Then quite suddenly he twisted around on his heels and faced Crane.

  'I knew Julia very well.'

  The statement took Crane by surprise. He hesitated, uncertain of what he should reply.

  'She never mentioned you,' he finally said.

  'She worked for me, Mr Crane.'

  Crane frowned. 'At Allied Computers?'

  'Oh, she did work there, yes. But at other times she worked for me.'

  'I think you'd better tell me who you are,' Crane said, waving the older man to a seat and sitting himself.

  Scott-Erskine reached inside his jacket and produced a small oblong of card. He handed it to Crane.