Cardini laughed long and loud. ‘Stopped? By you? I’ve offered you the world and in return you want to destroy me. Don’t you think that’s mad?’
‘Drop the needle, Cardini.’
Cardini was feeling the TRT flood his body with power. This was the sensation McCloud had craved, of going back to a time when the energy and vigour of the body were more than they had ever been. He felt as if he was growing, his muscles blowing up like balloons.
Jim watched Cardini. He seemed to grow: his posture straightened, first his back and then his neck. He looked a good two inches taller than he had a few seconds earlier.
‘Jim, don’t make me infect you. Don’t make me take your life. This is all so unnecessary.’
‘Drop the syringe. It’s all over for you. There’s nowhere for you to go.’
Cardini took a step forward. ‘Get into your car, Jim, and drive home to your beautiful life. Go now if you want to live.’
A calm had come over Cardini that gave Jim a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The syringe in the man’s hand would be lethal with just the slightest prick. A knife could cut, scrape, gouge and still not be lethal, but one touch of that needle and he would be infected, his death just a matter of time.
Jim moved between Cardini and his black Mercedes.
‘It seems that you really are going to make me fight you. You are beyond foolish.’ Cardini squared up to him, out of the range of the tyre iron.
‘Drop it, Cardini. This is your last chance.’
‘No, Jim, this is your last chance. Stop this insanity and join me instead; together—’
‘Forget it, Cardini. Let’s get this over with.’
Cardini was a big target, but the needle was out in front. A miss would leave Jim open for a fatal counterattack.
Jim had no idea how fast Cardini was, pumped up with the serum. He was younger than McCloud, who had been pretty fast, but much older than Renton, who had been almost too quick to handle.
He would go for the obvious shot: to knock the syringe out of Cardini’s hand.
They were sizing each other up, swaying slightly from side to side. Cardini certainly wasn’t moving like an old man: he was as limber as anyone Jim had fought.
Jim chose his moment and swung for Cardini’s right hand. Cardini drew it back, and as Jim pulled the bar away, Cardini caught it with his left hand. He swung the needle towards Jim’s exposed forearm.
Jim let go of the bar instantly and jumped back. ‘You can go now,’ said Cardini. ‘I set you free.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.’
‘So, you are going to force me to kill you,’ said Cardini. ‘Very well. You have received all the mercy in me. I will show you no more.’
Cardini stepped forward and slashed the tyre iron at Jim’s head. Jim ducked under it and danced to one side. Cardini changed hands with the weapons, giving Jim no time to rush him. Cardini nodded to himself. ‘It looks as if it is I who will brain you, Jim,’ he said, with relish in his voice. He swung again, this time with his best arm, and Jim jumped back just far enough for it to miss the side of his skull.
It was going to be very difficult to get inside the arc of the iron bar to strike Cardini, yet be out of the way of a blow from the syringe. He turned away so that as Cardini advanced he wouldn’t get pinned with his back to the Veyron.
There was a sudden roar and Cardini started. His eyes darted to the building and he shielded himself from the sudden heat of the blast.
The rupture did not break Jim’s concentration: it had been like a soft, unexpected punch, not distraction enough for him to take his eyes off his opponent. He saw Cardini flinch. He pushed off from his back foot, the left heading straight for Cardini’s right kneecap. It made contact and Cardini’s leg, which was braced, providing the push-off he needed to spring away from the arc of the professor’s reach.
Cardini’s kneecap spun under the force of the kick and fractured, the joint shattering. Cardini fell to one side and Jim sprang away from him. He ran to the plastic container Cardini had been carrying and swept it up. He unscrewed the top and began to pour the contents on to the ground.
‘No!’ cried Cardini, trying and failing to get up. ‘No!’ He dropped the syringe. ‘No! Don’t do that! Don’t waste it.’
The heat of the blaze was baking Jim’s back as he poured the pear-smelling liquid along the road and on to the grass verge.
Cardini was weeping helplessly. ‘Please.’
Jim walked around him, picked up the tyre iron, and threw the container into the shattered front door of the lab, flames billowing towards him. He smashed the driver’s side window of the Mercedes and climbed inside to riffle the glove compartment. He popped the boot and took out Cardini’s bag, which he opened.
‘Don’t!’ screamed Cardini, as Jim lobbed the bag through the fiery doorway. He rolled over and snatched up the syringe.
‘Drop it!’
Cardini held it, defiant.
Jim gritted his teeth. Then, with a brutal blow, he smashed it out of the professor’s hand.
Cardini screamed as the syringe flew across the forecourt. Jim bent down and rummaged through his pockets. He stood up with a vial of TRT, threw it on to the ground and crunched it under his foot.
Cardini was sobbing, a desolate wail.
‘You don’t have any more, do you?’
Cardini stared up at him with hatred.
Jim smiled. That had told him all he wanted to know. There was no more TRT. He turned and walked to the Veyron. It was hot inside the car. He reversed, looking across at the black Mercedes, which was now smouldering. He turned the car and drove around Cardini, who was crawling towards the puddle of TRT that remained. Make the most of it, thought Jim, looking up as a raindrop struck his ash-covered windscreen.
It began to pour, and as he headed towards the road he put on his wipers; they smeared the black detritus across the glass.
He rang Smith.
90
Stafford came into the study. ‘You called.’
‘Yes, Stafford,’ said Jim, who was scanning the gardens.
Stafford waited. ‘How may I help?’ he asked finally.
Jim turned away from the window. ‘I’ve found something I want you to have.’ He pulled it out of his pocket.
Stafford raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘The serum.’
‘Yes. It’s the only one left. I don’t think a single dose turns you into a maniac.’
‘Can you be sure?’
‘No,’ said Jim, ‘but I’ve had some and it didn’t turn me into a loony.’
‘You should keep it.’
‘It needs to be destroyed and you may as well take advantage of it instead.’
Stafford let out a little cough and opened his mouth as if to say something. He checked himself. ‘As you will,’ he said. ‘How can I refuse?’ He smiled.
Jim held out the vial to him. After a moment’s hesitation Stafford took it. He unscrewed the top and gave another little cough. ‘Just drink it?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Jim.
Stafford sipped, then braced himself and poured the rest into his mouth.
He stood stiffly, concentrating on the effect, if any. ‘I can’t say I’m noticing much,’ he said, with a hint of disappointment. ‘No, nothing.’
‘Really?’ said Jim. ‘Nothing at all?’
‘Nothing.’
Jim shrugged. ‘Sorry. It must have gone off.’
‘Gorn off?’ said Stafford, suddenly laughing. ‘Gorn off? You must be joking, old chap. My whole body’s on fire. Why, it’s amazing.’ He ran his hands down his sides. ‘Are you sure this is safe? My insides feel quite peculiar – as if I’m filling up with hot chocolate fondue.’ His face had gone red and he was beaming. ‘I think, if you don’t mind,’ said Stafford, ‘I’ll go to my quarters and have a lie-down – no, perhaps a walk in the grounds. This is quite extraord
inary.’ He took off his glasses and squinted at Jim. ‘By George, I can actually see you,’ he said. He put his glasses back on, then took them off again. ‘This is remarkable, quite remarkable. If I suddenly turn into a power-crazed maniac, promise you’ll shoot me.’
‘I promise.’
‘I think I need to experience this in private,’ Stafford said, ‘or I might die of shame later.’ He put the empty bottle on Jim’s desk and walked out of the room.
Jim dropped it into the wastepaper bin.
91
There was a man on the ha-ha but she couldn’t make out who it was. Perhaps it was the mysterious Mr Evans. She was glad she was on the shire. It was a giant and made her look small and frail, rather than slightly too strapping, which her mother had told her was her fatal flaw. ‘Men don’t like tall women,’ she had been informed, as if that would somehow curtail her growth.
Arabella saw that he was getting up as she approached. He was going to do more than wave as she walked past: he was going to engage her in conversation. She wondered whether Stafford would appear. That would be nicer than chatting with this stranger, even if it was the mystery man. She had got used to the daily acknowledgement, the smile, the few passing words, the relaxed but long gazes.
The man looked like Stafford, like a younger brother, a son, even. He was particularly handsome, in a way Stafford must have been twenty years earlier when she had been running through head-high wheat in that same field.
‘Good day,’ called the man.
She raised her hand to him, riding his way. ‘Good day,’ she said, when they were close enough.
A tartan rug lay on the grass with a hamper on it, a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne. Next to it there was an extraordinarily large dish of caviar.
‘I’ve been told that the most beautiful gal in the whole of the Home Counties rides this way each day,’ the man said, smiling up at her. He was undoubtedly Stafford’s son. ‘And, by George, it’s true.’
‘Surely he didn’t mean me,’ she said, smiling down at him, taken completely off guard by such extravagant flattery.
‘I’m certain he must have.’ He waved at the picnic. ‘So I have laid a trap for you.’
‘It is a rather obvious snare,’ she said. ‘What is the champagne?’
‘S,’ said Stafford.
‘Oh, really? S for “super”, ’ she said. ‘And the caviar?’
‘Russian Imperial Beluga, in strict contravention of the CITES accords.’
‘That is so illegal,’ she said, looking down at him, ‘but rather tempting nonetheless. Will your father be along?’
‘No,’ said Stafford, ‘he’s gone away for a few weeks.’ He held his hand up to her. ‘Can I help you down?’
‘That’s very gallant of you but I prefer to dismount in my own way.’
He stepped back and she swung down to the ground, bouncing a little. She took off her helmet and her hair fell on to her shoulders.
‘You’ve caught the sun,’ he said, looking so closely at her cheek that she thought he might kiss her.
She smiled. ‘You are perhaps the most forward man I have met all year.’
‘I must apologise for being enchanted,’ he said, looking down bashfully.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
92
Stafford marched into the study.
Jim looked up. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Quite,’ barked Stafford. ‘Bloody hell indeed,’ he said, with a military clip to his delivery.
‘You’re wearing my clothes.’
‘Yes, I am. Force of circumstance, I’m afraid. Mine no longer fit and, what’s more, they are no longer in fashion.’
‘Right,’ said Jim. He grinned.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ continued Stafford. ‘In fact, several.’
‘Anything,’ said Jim.
‘I wish to take some time off, perhaps as much as a month.’
‘Of course,’ said Jim.
‘I would like to make the most of this Indian summer, if I may.’
‘Of course.’
‘I wondered if I might borrow one of the cars.’ He turned away as if to give Jim the space to say no.
‘You’re covered in straw,’ said Jim.
Stafford spun round. ‘Am I?’
‘All over your back.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Oh dear?’ queried Jim.
‘Would it be all right …?’
Jim was pulling straw off Stafford’s back. ‘You want to borrow a car?’ he asked. ‘Of course, however many you like.’
‘And perhaps the jet?’ said Stafford, a trifle sheepishly.
‘Sure,’ said Jim. He looked out of the window. His jaw dropped. ‘There’s some bird riding over the lawn on a warhorse.’
Stafford followed his gaze. ‘Good grief, it’s Arabella.’
‘Arabella?’ said Jim. He burst out laughing. ‘Charter a yacht too.’
‘That’s too much,’ said Stafford, panic in his tone.
‘Go for it,’ said Jim. ‘Show her the bright lights – you’re only young twice.’
‘I’d better get out there,’ said Stafford.
‘See you later.’
Stafford dashed for the door, appearing a few moments later on the drive, the gravel crunching under his stride. He walked smartly towards her, about to break into a skip and a jump.
Jim shook his head.
93
‘Why have you come here?’ Cardini said, his voice trembling.
‘Just checking up on you.’
Cardini was sitting in a cheap armchair, wrapped in a blanket. He looked much older than he had two months before when Jim had left him lying on the ground, his leg smashed. ‘Come to see me crumble away?’
‘Yes, I have. If I could drive a stake through your heart I would.’
Cardini was nodding as he thought of his reply. He raised his mottled, gnarled hands. ‘Take a good look, child. This is your sorry future. One day you will be sitting here. You will be dying and then, as you look into the void of death, you will –’ he gasped ‘– you will know that you gave up your only chance to survive. You will have died through your own stupidity.’
‘Well, I promise you one thing. Unlike you I won’t give a monkey’s cuss.’
His mobile bleeped, it was an SMS. No one sent him SMS. Maybe it was Kate. He took it out.
It was a slap in the face for Cardini. ‘You’ll be like me one day,’ his trembling voice spat, ‘a worthless broken vessel.’
Jim looked up at him, distracted. ‘Right,’ he said. He looked back at the message. It was from some crazy foreign number and it was Jane. ‘Am I worth $100 million? J.’
He turned away from Cardini and walked out, desperately trying to call the number back. The line didn’t answer. He looked at the message again. What the hell had happened?
There was another bleep. This time it was from Kate. What? thought Jim. ‘Jim, I’m sorry for running off like that. Can we perhaps have a coffee?’
He slapped the screen to his forehead and groaned. More insanity and chaos, he thought.
94
Cardini raised his head slowly and peered at the nurse, his misty eye barely able to make out her features. ‘Is there a package for me?’
‘No, Professor,’ she sang. ‘Are you comfortable there?’
‘There must be a package for me.’
‘No package for you today, Professor.’
‘Can you check?’
‘Of course, Professor. I check for you every day.’
‘Please check again.’
‘Tea time first, Professor. It’s your favourite.’
‘I’m expecting an important package,’ he said slowly.
‘Yes, Professor, I know.’
‘I must have it as soon as it arrives.’
‘Yes, Professor.’
‘It’s very important,’ he said, his head nodding from side to side with anxiety.
‘Of course, Professor.’
/>
‘Has it arrived yet?’
‘Nothing for you today, Professor.’
First published in 2012
by No Exit Press
an imprint of Oldcastle Books
P O Box 394,
Harpenden, AL5 1XJ
www.noexit.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2012
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© Clem Chambers 2012
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First Horseman, The Page 23