The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy

by David Graham

  Dale and Steve looked at each other. “And I need to get you back to Chief Scanlon before you cause any more mischief,” Steve said.

  “Will you promise me something, sweets?” Dale said.

  “Er, okay,” Steve said uncertainly.

  “When I get old and gnarled like that witch, will you still be there to look after me?”

  Steve shrugged. “Yeah. As long as you get me the Robin outfit for Christmas.”

  “Eurgh, that’s just so gay,” Ceri said. She blew her nose loudly. “So, what about me then?”

  “You can take the cauldron home with you,” Dale said, glancing at the now redundant lump of metal embedded in the lath and plaster wall.

  “Gosh, thanks,” Ceri said. She went over to where Elspeth Brown had disappeared and effortlessly retrieved the heavy cauldron, which she dangled from her hand as if it was the latest, must-have fashion accessory. “Cool,” she said, as she admired the decoration around the rim. Dale glimpsed the pattern: pairs of upside-down wings. Cute. And then he made the connection – without the assistance of Ma Bell. He’d been right all along about the divine Deborah and her dark side. MI5 had a reputation for dirty work. They’d better get the hell out of the place before her spooks arrived with the clean-up squad. Dai could deal with the debriefing. He could always zap them with the hocus focus if it got too heavy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Yeah, I know the timing sucks, but this is a chance to make a real difference for the kid,” Steve said. “And anyway, I want you to see how talented he is.”

  “You mean, loads of lira for him to blow on dope and sex?” Dale said, as good as extending his claws.

  It was two days before Thanksgiving and the car was playing up. Dale needed to get under the hood rather than go to some art gallery – particularly one with an exhibition by an exhibitionist. Steve had put his drawing on the wall above his desk. It was a darn good likeness, but ...

  Dale sighed. “Okay, sweets, but only for an hour. I need to work on – ”

  “Your DeLorean,” Steve said with a groan. “Look, you sure you don’t want to marry the car instead?”

  Dale closed his eyes and affected a wistful grin. “Yeah, that’s quite a thought ...”

  “Awesome!” Dale said, as they entered the gallery foyer. The exhibition had been titled ‘Coming Out the Other Side’. He’d been vaguely aware of some guy dressed in black handing him a sheet of paper, but his mind was busy taking it all in. The exhibition space was industrially proportioned, with exposed pipes, bare brickwork and lights criss-crossing the cantilevered ceiling. The centre of the gallery was occupied by screens and video projectors. A sign on the wall nearby read, ‘START’; ‘END’ was over on the right. Dale appreciated the straightforward intention.

  “I guess we should begin there,” Dale said, pointing towards the left. He recognised the first picture from what Steve had told him after his first visit to Two Rivers. The drawing had no title, just the number 1 by the side, although it was written in letters. ‘ONE’ could have been about the boy groping for an identity, establishing his oneness with the cosmos or identifying as a peanut – albeit with two ears attached.

  Dale heard the sounds of someone struggling behind him. He whipped round and saw a video playing of the boy from the ER being manhandled by burly nurses attired in white. He guessed the artist was struggling for the sake of his sanity and art. That was juxtaposed with footage of fanboys queuing up at the altar of Apple to buy the latest cell phone. They proudly held high their silvery rectangles like Olympians holding up their well-earned medals. Little did they know that they were holding tainted technology that would spell the end of their freedom. The final shot in the sequence was a news bulletin about a Foxconn employee plunging to his death after 48 hours on an assembly line with barely any sleep.

  “Whaddya think?” a young-sounding voice asked to his left.

  Dale did a double-take. It couldn’t have been the same guy they’d seen in the ER – could it? He had on a suit and dress shirt, and his hair looked immaculately groomed. His only concession to an artistic temperament was an iridescent green tie that matched the sparkling intelligence of his eyes.

  “The look on your face says it all, Officer,” Joseph Gardiner said, smiling broadly.

  “Jeez! You did that?” Dale asked.

  Joseph shrugged. “Sure. But that’s just the beginning. Wait till you see the rest,” he said, bright-eyed and brimming with enthusiasm. “Tell me, how d’you like the videos? That was Nurse Elliott’s idea. I think they’re just so cool.” He gestured to a man nearby, dressed in nurse’s whites, to come over.

  “So, you’re Steve’s partner,” Nurse Elliott said, looking him up and down. “Yup, I was right, you are a cutie.”

  Joseph yawned theatrically. “Sorry, he’s like that with all the guys. Look, I want to show you something, although – ” he leaned forward to whisper, “ – Steve doesn’t know I’ve put it up.”

  “Will I like it?” Dale asked.

  “You’ll love it, dude,” Nurse Elliott said with a wink.

  Dale allowed himself to be led past a huge centrepiece painting that had already attracted a large crowd. Steve seemed to be deep in conversation with someone resembling Father Christmas. But he hadn’t started patting his fat belly and saying, “Ho-ho-ho”. Dale guessed he was some know-it-all critic, ready to describe the work as being “unzipped with transcendently surging symbolism”. Sex certainly figured in all its liberated forms. The take-home message seemed to be about venturing onwards and upwards to the promised land, with intercourse as the driving force to get folk to their chosen destination.

  “Ta-da!” Joseph said, as they reached the destination he had in mind.

  Dale guessed he looked like an idiot, with his jaw on the floor and eyes all bugged-out, but seeing one’s partner displayed naked, life-size, on a wall, took some getting used to. To complicate matters, the real body in question had just joined him by his side. He was almost tempted to suggest Steve stripped for a quick side-by-side comparison.

  “Oh fuck!” Steve said, reddening in a flash.

  “Oops, I guess I should have warned you,” Joseph said sheepishly, “but it’s the best thing I’ve done. In fact, the gallery owner liked it so much, he’s bought it for himself. See, there’s the ‘SOLD’ sticker.” He pointed a finger at a large red dot at the bottom right of the painting.

  “How?” Dale asked pathetically, hoping there was a less than obvious explanation than Steve posing in the buff. “And don’t say it was X-ray vision,” he grumbled.

  “X-ray vision?” Joseph inclined his head and flicked a look at Steve. “Yeah. I dig that.” He shrugged. “Actually, I just imagine what people are like without their clothes.” He turned to look straight-on at Dale. It was like being back in the Walmart scanner, although a whole lot quicker. “Okay, I’ll paint you next, Lieutenant, but I might shift it to the middle so you’re symmetrical.”

  Dale’s blush response was even quicker than Steve’s.

  “That is ... awesome,” intoned a non-US voice from just behind them. Dale and Steve swivelled around and their eyes nearly popped out of their heads. The speaker had warm brown eyes, skin like polished onyx, razor-sharp cheekbones and a slender body that seemed to stretch on forever. He wore a loose-fitting black suit and a T-shirt that had a multi-coloured logo printed on it. Steve let out a low whistle and reached out to shake the man’s hand.

  “Jeez! You must be Jacob Ngali!” Steve said, clearly awestruck by more than the dude’s reputation.

  “It is I,” Jacob said with a polite little bow. “And who might I have the pleasure of ...” He frowned, glanced at the painting and then back at Steve. “You are most handsome, sir,” he said, apparently in all sincerity.

  Dale was all set to drag Steve away from his strangely old-fashioned admirer with his schoolroom English. Jacob Ngali might be Caltech’s whizzkid, but Dale was just as old-time when it came to social etiquette and someone taking a
n instant shine to his boyfriend.

  Just then they were joined by another man wearing the same T-shirt but over jeans. It was a lot easier to make out the ‘Cogniz’ logo. He had a Harpo Marx halo of golden, curly hair. “Oh jeez ... sorry,” he said, grinning and putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Jacob isn’t exactly used to social situations and says the first thing that comes into his head. I’m Peter Griffin, the CEO of Cogniz.”

  Dale shook his hand. “Good to meet you, Peter. I’m Dale Franklin.” But judging by the adulation on Jacob’s face, Steve remained in the firing line of Cupid’s scopeequipped bow. “Umm, your friend’s object of desire just so happens to be my boyfriend, Steve Abrams. We’re both with the Kansas City Police Department and we worked alongside Dr Cathy Sven – ”

  “I like frat parties!” Jacob piped up. He leaned forward until he was a few inches from Steve’s neck and inhaled deeply. “Hmm, bergamot, verbena, nutmeg, black pepper, patchouli, vanilla, civet ...” He scrunched up his face for a moment then beamed. “That is Noir by Mr Tom Ford. He is also a very handsome man.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Sorry, guys. We saw Perfume in a movie theatre last month and he’s been trying to guess the ingredients of men’s colognes ever since – ”

  “I do not guess, Peter; I know,” Jacob said, evidently in all seriousness.

  Peter shrugged. “Yeah, you probably do, too.” He turned to Dale and Steve. “He’s memorised all the chemical formulae, would you believe it? The next thing you know we’ll be crowdfunding a perfume store.”

  Jacob’s eyes lit up. “I would like that. It is good to make people smell nice.” He seemed to remember something and pulled a cell phone out of a pocket. “See,” he said, flipping through pictures on the screen, “these are our children, David and Jonathan. I am teaching them math. They are very good students.”

  Dale and Steve exchanged an ‘eh?’ look. Jacob’s cell displayed two animals that could have been rats. They stood on their hind legs, their forepaws held out like some parody of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist, with their beady black eyes focused greedily on the person behind the lens. Dale shuddered. Feeding time back home had been a similar battle of wills when his dad was worse for drink.

  “They’re ex-lab rats,” Peter said. “I gave them to Jacob when he moved in to my place. They were among the first to be given the cognitive reparative therapy. And it’s true he’s teaching them math. They must be the only first graders that sniff their way to the answer. He’s making them add for their supper.”

  “Isn’t that the drug from some African plant?” Dale asked. He’d remembered some news report about startup companies muscling in on the aftermath of ‘the screaming’. “‘Ashtanga’ or something?” He shrugged, knowing he’d used the wrong word.

  Jacob suddenly looked wise beyond his years. “It is ashwagandha, sir,” he said. “It is very special to my people.”

  “Okay, yeah? ...” Dale said. He wasn’t exactly up to speed with cultural stuff.

  “Jacob’s right,” Peter said, nodding and grinning simultaneously. “An extract of the berry is biologically highly active and marginally improves memory in some subjects. A bit like ginkgo biloba, in fact. Jacob’s genius with chemical structures enabled him to see that some minor alterations to the active constituent would allow it to slot into the beta amyloid molecule. Hey presto, that gave us enhanced hippocampal neuronal transmission and regulated beta amyloid turnover. A win-win for affected teens like Joseph. And a couple of superintelligent rats, of course.”

  “Holy Houdini!” Steve said. “That’s like finding the Holy Grail of neuroscience!”

  Jacob beamed. “Thank you, sir. That is a great compliment.” He turned serious again. “It is God’s work, of course. We must atone for our sins.”

  Peter blushed. “Yeah, sure, babe.” He turned to Dale. “Sorry, it’s the old bible babble thing. You know, ‘swirling around in a cesspit of their own creation’ and all that crap.”

  Dale laughed painfully. “Yeah, don’t I know.” He looked around to check for others of Godly persuasion nearby. “So, Peter, what’s your connection with – ” he gestured at the generally sacrilegious exhibits around them, “ – this show?”

  “The gallery owner is the main investor in our company,” Peter said. “And Joseph has agreed to be in our publicity campaigns.”

  “I said I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Joseph said, smiling from ear to ear. “So, no tits or dicks on display.”

  “I like dicks!” Jacob said way too loudly. He frowned, bent down to rub his hands on the floor and then rubbed his palms briskly against his cheeks.

  “Hairshirt?” Dale asked beneath his breath.

  “Yeah, something like that. I’m sorta working on it, but it’s like walking on eggshells,” Peter said, smiling ruefully.

  Dale nodded. He’d once had a girlfriend who breathed fire and brimstone during sex. Marriage might have sorted her fornication guilt trip, but she’d have found another way of bringing God into the bedroom. Now it was Sodom and Gomorrah all the way and there was no turning back. Even the delights of the darkly devious Deborah Jenkins had been consigned to the annals of a past life.

  “Is the gallery owner here?” Steve asked, looking around keenly. “I’m kinda interested to meet the guy who’s bought Joseph’s painting of me.”

  Dale was thinking along similar lines. He was weighing up the pros and cons of throwing him a sucker punch; best after the first wink at his boyfriend, he decided. He was off duty, after all, and some well-aimed performance art could be just the audience’s ticket. Although perhaps that’d been the plan all along. “Holy rat in a trap!” as Steve would put it.

  Peter shook his head. Ringlets rearranged themselves in a languorous way that was straight out of some cheesy shampoo commercial. Dale decided that was a good enough reason to distrust him. “That’s the weird thing,” Peter said. “We’ve only ever dealt with him through an intermediary. Still, as long as the money keeps on coming, it doesn’t really matter. He wanted the drug for himself, too. I guess he could be in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. Perhaps he’s been delayed by the weather. It’s fucking slippery out there.”

  “Well, that was interesting,” Dale said as they walked to the door. “You’ll be needing a secretary for your fan club soon.”

  “You’re jealous,” Steve said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are too!”

  The wind had picked up when they emerged from the gallery and the street lights glistened on icy patches on the sidewalk.

  “Jeez! Where did the chill come from?” Dale asked, rubbing his hands for warmth. “Fancy a glass of vino?”

  “I thought you had a date with the car?” Steve said, grinning like the cat that got the cream. He’d been let off the hook and he knew it.

  “Yeah? Oh, that can wait. That art’s got me thinking.” Dale turned back to look at the gallery. The sign read: ‘THE BIG NEW GALLERY’. He liked that. Plain and simple; nothing remotely artsy-fartsy. But he still didn’t like the idea of some creep hanging the picture of Steve on his living room wall. Perhaps Father Christmas had gotten lonely and needed a companion for the cold winter nights. It was the season of goodwill, after all. And he didn’t really mind the attention Steve had received from Jacob, either. Weird dude, mind you.

  “Dale, take two steps back,” Steve ordered. “Like now!”

  Dale’s primitive brain kicked in without him giving a second thought. That was the whole point about chain of command. If you stopped to question it, chances are you’d get hurt. He stepped back and waited. He wouldn’t have been able to say whether it was for a minute or a second. The street had been clear apart from a station wagon a 100 yards away. He’d always been good at judging distances. Perhaps the driver had been collecting a Christmas tree. The bigger, the better these days, it seemed. Throwing them out with the trash didn’t do much for green credibility.

  Dale caught a snatch of sound of reveller
s a block away. Too much festive liquor, he imagined. The noise was joined by something much closer and louder. Squealing brakes, engine noise and tires hitting concrete merged into one. The station wagon careered out of control down the sidewalk just feet in front of him. Dale thanked God he’d been well trained to follow orders. The vehicle came to a halt amid a pile of trash bags and dumpsters left out for the morning pick up.

  “Fuck!” Dale said, shocked to the core. It was like being zapped by electricity and realising you’d escaped death by a whisker. “How the hell did you know?”

  Steve looked puzzled. “Dunno. It just came to me.”

  Dale’s scalp still prickled. “Let’s check the driver. You call 911.” He ran to the driver’s side. The guy was elderly and had slumped against the wheel. Dale opened the door and reached in to turn off the engine.

  “Are you all right, sir? You’ve had an accident.”

  The driver groaned and moved a hand feebly to his head. At least he was conscious and moving. And he’d still be around to enjoy Christmas.

  “It’s okay, sir, don’t move. Help is coming.”

  “An ambulance is on its way,” Steve said, arriving alongside. “He’s got a flat on the left. He must have skidded on the ice. He’s damn lucky.”

  Yeah, so am I, Dale thought ruefully. But was it actually luck?

  “Er, Steve, how are your nuts?” Dale said.

  “Fine, last time I looked ... oh fuck! Not me as well!”

  Dale shrugged. “Could be. We could set up shop. Your specialty could be predicting vehicular accidents, while I do crime. We can share dealing with threats from witches. I can see the sign: ‘Franklin & Abrams, Precognitors’. Sounds cool, don’t you think?”

  But Steve had already gone off to say howdy to the paramedics, who’d arrived in record time for a call received during the holiday season. Dale noticed they even had a ‘HAPPY THANKSGIVING’ sign on the back of their vehicle. They’d probably been pigging out on turkey and pecan pie in a nearby diner.

  Talking of signs ... Dale glanced back at the gallery. Something about the banner was bugging him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The strengthening wind was busily wrestling the banner away from its attachments, as if it had done its job and was ready to be set free. With a final gusty tug, the sign parted company with its moorings and spiralled gracefully to the ground. Just then the gallery doors slammed shut with a dull clang. The show was over ... or, on second thought, perhaps it had just started. The Big New Gallery had a captive audience.