The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy

by David Graham

  Steve nudged him with an elbow. “Remember it’s Her Majesty the Queen you’re talking to!” he whispered tartly.

  The Queen looked at Dale sternly. It was like being back at Sunday school all over again. “Young man, your compatriot Mark Twain once said: ‘Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities that truth isn’t.’” The Queen smiled coyly. “You must excuse an old woman for using obscure quotations. We find they are a bit like doing crossword puzzles. They are so good for the brain. The Times is still the best, of course.”

  Dale saluted. “Gotcha, Ma’am.” He had an aunt like that, although her puzzles were on the back of cereal packets. He leaned across the table. “But one thing that’s still bugging me is how you put out the fire. I mean, you didn’t exactly have a hose with you.”

  The Queen glanced at what Dale took to be a bone china cup. “You see the steam coming off from this tea, Lieutenant?”

  Dale nodded. Perhaps the Queen was going to say that she huffed and puffed and blew the fire out.

  The Queen continued with her explanation: “We see our world like a cup of tea: somewhere between cold and hot, typically murky, and with whispers of unrest emerging from the calm surface.”

  “That’s deeply metaphorical,” Steve said in his partner’s ear. Dale wasn’t convinced. Plain loony is how he’d have put it under usual circumstances.

  “So, when we realised what was about to occur,” the Queen said, “we imagined hoovering the carpets at Balmoral and sucking up the destructive force of the hex – ”

  “Into the vacuum of space, Ma’am?” Steve said.

  “Exactly!” the Queen said. “We are not nearly as adept as David in these endeavours, but it did the trick. Did you know that the hoover was invented in the United State of America? By a Mr Hoover, we believe. Not J Edgar Hoover, of course.” She chuckled. “Sadly, one doesn’t hoover often, but we do find the pastime most therapeutic – a bit like ironing, really.” She looked wistfully at the carpet.

  “So, Ma’am, how did you manage to stop before it went too far?” Dai asked eagerly. “You know, like at Balmoral when ...” Dale could see he was getting into dangerous territory. Details of her space-time incursion was kept under wraps, on a need-to-know basis.

  “Oh, that was easy, David. We thought about putting our feet up and having a Dubonnet and gin. It was really rather exciting.” The Queen sighed. “It is amazing how one can teach old dogs new tricks. Who would have thought ...” She was becoming pensive again.

  “What I don’t understand, Ma’am, is how the whole witchery thing remained hidden,” Steve said. “Surely we’d have known about it, what with all those movies and books?”

  “A good point, Sergeant ... Abrams, is it?” Steve nodded, beaming at the Queen’s acknowledgement. “The Institute realised they had to do something,” she continued. “There were too many reports of people going to hospital with strange injuries. Burns from wooden torches and misfired hexes were particularly common. The cover story was spontaneous lightning strikes, but the BBC’s health correspondents were becoming suspicious. So, we had a word in a certain publisher’s ear ...”

  “You’re saying that was a goddamn smokescreen all along?” Dale said. “Jeez! Who would have thought it?”

  “Precisely,” the Queen said. “So, if someone went to hospital complaining of being afflicted with a crucifix hex or a nasty case of hobgoblin poisoning, no one batted an eyelid. It was brilliant, even if we say so ourselves.”

  “And then the government blew it out of the water,” Dai said.

  The Queen sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. Without radio waves to dampen the witches’ excessive activity, it suddenly became open season, with the Scots against the Welsh, the Welsh fighting with the English ... I mean, really.” She tut-tutted her exasperation. “I’m afraid MI5 have rather had their work cut out dealing with indiscriminate hexes.”

  “And now, Ma’am?” Steve asked keenly. “If you’ve sent something that was meant to destroy us into outer space, is that the end of it?”

  The Queen looked up at the ceiling. Dale could guess what she was about to say.

  “There’s a certain rule that dictates what happens to undelivered hexes,” the Queen said, turning to Dai, “Your aunt and a certain young lady named Ceri should know all about that.”

  “They come back to haunt one, Ma’am?” Dai said.

  The Queen nodded sagely. “Exactly, although it is a little difficult to predict when. Suffice to say, one should be keeping an eye on the sky for many hundreds of glowing balls.”

  Hearing that, Dai was relieved they’d moved from the top of a tower block to a first floor flat. He took a quick look at his bride. She was happily talking to Steve. Amazing. Who would have believed that she could recover her voice just like that? At last the truth was finally out in the open. But what would happen now that the Queen had exposed herself as an adversary of witches? He wasn’t exactly out of the woods, either. His kidnapping ordeal remained as blank as ever. At least his speech was back to normal. Perhaps the attack of Welshness was a sign of his body attempting to deal with the hex. Granny Betty would have expected nothing less.

  So, how was the hex put into him? Christ, perhaps it was in the Pringles! No, he’d vomited them over his shoes. Aha, he’d remembered that. He also vaguely recalled a white van, although there was a lot of them around. Rumour had it that the police used ‘Mobile Interrogation Units’ to deal with the pressure on Paddington Green. Hmm, a witch in a white van with an obliteration hex kept under her pointed hat? No, Dai, that’s getting crazy.

  “So, what will you be doing next, Ma’am? A trip in Sir Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic, perhaps?” Dai asked.

  The Queen smiled the wisdom of nearly fourscore years and ten. She inclined her head. “Actually, we believe there is more work to be done here and we are counting on you assisting us.”

  What could he say to that? ‘‘Of course, Ma’am, I remain your humble servant.”

  The Queen moved her handbag to the opposite side of the table. “More tea, anyone?” she said, returning to her guests. “Darjeeling or Earl Grey? Both are excellent, although we prefer Earl Grey in the afternoon. We find it so refreshing. Of course, Philip hates it and calls it ‘slanty-eyed tea’.”

  Dai watched as footmen leaped back into action, freed from their Borg-like hibernation. The guests had laughed politely at her much-practised joke. The Queen seemed surprisingly back on form despite the bizarre events in the church. And he was her humble servant. A quote from Star Trek came to mind: “I have been ... and always shall be ... your friend.” It always brought tears to his eyes, but, for once, what bubbled up was based in reality. He reckoned there’d be exciting times ahead on this insignificant little planet called Earth.

  The footmen had just discreetly poured glasses of champagne. Dai felt hot breath around his ankles. A corgi or dorgi – he was still useless at telling them apart – was panting for attention. He bent down and inspected one of its ears. The little black mites were still at home. One jumped species onto his finger. Close up, it moved rather jerkily and had a tiny silvery protrusion, which he was certain nature had never intended. The Queen had been right all along: it was a nanobug and probably of Chinese origin. With the mobile phone industry on the decline, their factories were occupied making even smaller things to get on people’s nerves. No wonder she’d sent the dogs out.

  “You see what we mean?” the Queen said inside his head, pointing at the offending technology. “The little blighters are all over the place. But we won’t let that spoil our annus mirabilis.” She stood up, holding a flute of champagne.

  “Please be upstanding for Her Majesty the Queen,” one of the footmen intoned solemnly.

  “Please raise your glasses,” the Queen said, smiling broadly. “To Sir David Williams, soothsayer to ourselves the Queen of England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and – ” she winked at Dai, “ – most definitely Wales, and his charm
ing bride, Lady Sandra.”

  As they tipped their glasses, Dai became aware of a tinkling sound that didn’t seem related to the bubbly drink. Sandra had gone ashen and she had her hands on the arms of the chair, as if in the process of lifting herself up. Her waters had broken ... onto the priceless Chippendale chair ... and the heirloom Axminster carpet ... and just a few feet away from the Queen.

  “Can someone call for an ambulance?” she said shakily.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Queen had been most understanding about the mess on the carpet. Her Majesty had slipped into the maternal mode in the blink of an eye and had ordered a limousine and outriders to take Sandra to hospital. She’d even offered for Sandra to go to the Lindo Wing at St Mary’s, Paddington, the private maternity unit used by the Royal Family. That had been a tough call, but Granny Betty would have rolled over in her grave and cursed the lot of them if Dai had taken the soft option.

  “Well, that was certainly a dramatic end to a wedding reception!” Dr Jones said as they arrived in the maternity unit. “And I hadn’t even finished my champagne.”

  Dai shuffled his feet. “I feel really bad about the carpet. I can’t exactly offer to replace it on the salary MI5 pay me.”

  “Well, at least Sandra finding her voice should make the midwife’s job a whole lot easier,” Dr Jones said. “Let’s go and see how she’s doing.”

  A couple of hours later, they were starting to regret the wisdom of Dr Jones’s remark. Sandra’s vocal cords might have been unused for years, but there was no doubting her ability to swear like a trooper.

  Dai also discovered that telepathy was an effective way to do the visualisation exercises Sandra had been taught to manage pain – when she wasn’t screaming at everyone, of course. It took him back to the days when they first met in The Manor and exchanged imaginary bouquets of flowers and drank virtual champagne. There’d been fireworks and symphony orchestras, too, but he’d save those until after the baby was born. He’d been warned they could be in for a long wait.

  “Jesus Christ! Why won’t the fucking thing come out!” Sandra yelled after pulling heavily on the Entonox before the next contraction peaked.

  “Because it’s a baby, dear, and babies do what babies want,” the generously proportioned midwife said, smiling grimly. Dai noticed that she wore a large, wooden cross around her neck. He wondered whether she endured the swearing as penance for all her overeating.

  Eventually, the baby did pop out with a wholly unimpressive plop. By then, everyone was so exhausted that the delivery came as an anti-climax. Dai had long since forgotten the son et lumière celebrations. The most impressive feature of the new-born child was her hair, which was unusually abundant and raven black. She had strikingly dark eyes, which bore into you as you gazed on her sweet face. The midwife completed her night’s duty by placing the baby in a cot by the side of Sandra’s bed. Dai settled himself in the chair alongside. The three of them had definitely earned a restful night.

  The phone rang by the bedside. It didn’t have the usual sound Steve remembered from back in Dale’s apartment. It definitely seemed more strident and insistent. He grumbled to himself and reached for the handset.

  “Yeah ...” Steve said sleepily. The caller’s accent was strange but somehow familiar. It wasn’t American. The voice mentioned a baby. Steve jolted into alertness within seconds. “Oh fuck! Yeah, sure, we’ll be there. Don’t do anything.”

  Steve nudged the recumbent form next to him. Dale was snoring and the noise sounded like his DeLorean backfiring. Steve planted a kiss on his lips. It was a pretty mean way of getting his attention, but it wasn’t every day that a knight called for their help. Dale grunted and extended his arms from under the bed clothes like a sleepwalker fumbling in the dark.

  “That was Dai,” Steve said, watching for a reaction. “The baby has gone missing.”

  “You must be fucking joking!” Dale said, jerking bolt upright. His eyes seemed to stare right through him.

  Steve shrugged. “Sorry, sweets. That’s the honest-to-God truth. The baby was taken at – ” he checked his watch, “ – zero three forty. The graveyard slot, in other words.” He grimaced. “I didn’t mean that, of course.”

  Dale was out of the bed in an instant, pacing the room and grasping his head with both hands. “Fuck! I should have seen that coming.”

  Steve stood by observing his boyfriend. He’d come to appreciate that Dale’s manic moments should be watched rather than interfered with. Dale went to the window and drew back the curtains. It was still dark outside. His body looked so slim and muscular from behind. Dale started tapping his fingers on the window like some weird version of Morse code.

  The doorbell rang, rudely interrupting Dale’s communication with the outside world. Steve grabbed a bath towel and dashed to the door, hoping it was news about the baby. He opened the door a crack. It was someone they’d seen on their side of the church, although they hadn’t been introduced. What with all the business with the hex, he probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway. The woman wore a night robe, so she must’ve been staying in the hotel. She looked worried.

  “Have you heard about ...?” Oops, she’d just made the mistake of looking over his shoulder. “Oh ... g-gosh, I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

  Steve glanced back into the room. Dale was still standing naked in front of the window.

  “Hey, dude, cover yourself up,” Steve called out. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  Dale turned to face the two of them. Just then, the hotel guest was joined by a girl. They both stared wideeyed at Dale.

  “Don’t look,” the woman said, covering the girl’s eyes with her hands.

  “Stop it, Mam!” the girl said, grabbing angrily at her mother’s fingers.

  “Christ, Dale!” Steve yelled as he ran back into the room and reached for something to cover Dale’s manhood.

  “I know what you’ve been up to, missy,” Dale said, pointing a finger at the girl, still apparently oblivious to his condition.

  The girl went red-faced. “Excuse me, sir,” the woman said, “what the hell do you mean saying that to my daughter?”

  “Out of the mouth of babes,” Dale said with a throaty chuckle. “That was clever. Yessiree, darn ingenious.”

  The woman and her daughter shared a puzzled look. “Sorry ...” the woman said.

  “Yeah, aren’t we all,” Dale said, reaching for some clothes. “The business in the church was just the start. The bastards are playing with us. And what’s better than using a baby as a lure?” He clicked his tongue in admiration. “You’ve gotta hand it to them.”

  “Jeez, Dale! How d’you know?” Steve said.

  Dale tapped the side of his head. “Trust me. I know.” He turned to look at their visitors. “Now, if you ladies would excuse us. I suggest we meet in reception in ten minutes.”

  The woman nodded and pulled the door closed without saying a word. The girl could be heard shouting as they walked back to their rooms. Steve dressed, waiting for Dale to say something. The silence was painful.

  “So, who exactly were they?” Steve asked.

  “Dai’s aunt and her daughter,” Dale said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw the guest list at reception.”

  “Okay, but what was all the pointing about? You weren’t exactly being Mr Congenial.”

  Dale shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

  “And why so hard on the girl? She’s only a teenager for Chrissakes.”

  Dale put his hands on Steve’s shoulders. He was shaking. His metabolism seemed to be in overdrive. “Because she needs to feel guilty.” He grabbed at a jacket. “Hurry up. And don’t forget your ID this time.”

  “What the fuck ...”

  But Dale was already out of the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll need to see some ID,” the receptionist said through a hatch at the entrance to the maternity unit. “We have strict rules about
visitors.”

  Dale cocked an eyebrow. “Like this morning, you mean?” He flipped his badge open.

  The woman flicked her eyes over the ID. “Americans,” she muttered, as if coming from the other side of the pond was something shameful. “Anyway, the local police have already been here. And they’ve advised us not to let anyone in.”

  Steve stepped up to the window. “Please make an exception, ma’am. We’re friends of Sir David,” he said, smiling winsomely.

  For a moment, Dale thought the receptionist was about to concede defeat. Steve’s eyes were particularly come-to-bed given his half-asleep condition. “No,” she said, looking at him without a flicker of emotion.

  Mrs Edwards bustled her way to the front. She smiled sweetly. “My dear, I’m Personal Assistant to the Chief Executive at the Royal Glamorgan Hospital and I’m about to register a complaint for the negligent care of my nephew’s wife. So, if you don’t mind ...” She pointed at the door to the unit.

  Sandra had been allocated a side room. Dale knocked gently and eased the door open a crack. She appeared to be sleeping. Dai was sitting in a chair next to the bed, his eyes closed and head lolling to one side. He still had on the shirt and pants he’d worn to the reception and his hair was mussed up. The empty cot had been left next to the bed. A pink blanket embroidered with animals hung over the edge. Dai jerked into consciousness as the four of them entered the room and he leaned forward to check the contents of the cot. He sighed and looked over at Sandra. She hadn’t registered the presence of visitors. Dai brushed away a lock of hair and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Sorry, I haven’t had much sleep,” Dai said. He looked exhausted and hollow-eyed. He yawned and attempted a smile. “Hey, thanks for coming. I could do with some friendly faces right now.”

  Mrs Edwards’s daughter rushed over and gave Dai a hug. “I’m so sorry, Dai bach. I shouldn’t have ...” Ceri burst into tears. Her mother went over to join them for an embrace. Ceri had taken the first bite of Dale’s bait. If she was a goddamn witch, now would be a good time for her to prove it.